


Hail Mary

by Johannas_Motivational_Insults



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - High School, And they were yearning, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, adhd adora, adhd catra, adora and catra are useless lesbian jocks, autistic Adora, lonnie's going to tear her hair out over these pining idiots, side kyle/rogelio, side scorpia/lonnie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24968263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johannas_Motivational_Insults/pseuds/Johannas_Motivational_Insults
Summary: Adora and Catra have been best friends for as long as they can remember, but things are not as rosy as they may seem. As the playoffs near in their senior football season, a series of events unveil their frustrations, shattering the facade and forcing them to reevaluate who they are, to themselves and to each other. They're on the edge of greatness, can they stay together and see things through? Or will their team and their hearts fall to defeat?
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 507
Kudos: 759





	1. Blue Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Well I never thought I'd end up writing a high school au, but this idea took hold of me and wouldn't let go. High school jock4jock au, here we are. Let's go lesbians, let's go!
> 
> Rated T for language, substance use, and references to sexuality and abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, not every chapter will have this much football in it (or any at all), this just seemed like the best place to jump into the story and a good opportunity to introduce a lot of characters at once. So don't get turned off by that, there's lots of tension and delicious yearning to be had between the plays. And don’t worry if you don’t understand the gameplay all that well (though I did my best to make things clear), you'll still get the point. That being said, I never played football and am only a casual fan, so if you see any mistakes feel free to let me know!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to [jem-jarrett](https://jem-jarrett.tumblr.com) for the gorgeous illustration in this chapter, which doubles as the [cover art](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a981940772b9a39bfbec30effad6c0c6/8fc839c100e5ed3f-22/s500x750/4e10ca89e6a1020880133ab15979c9180b971899.jpg) for the fic. If you enjoy this first chapter, go check out [the art](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/post/631834205311090688) and [the fic summary/promo post](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/post/631834924038733824/synopsis-adora-and-catra-have-been-best-friends) on Tumblr, and feel free to share them if you’re so inclined. :D

_Punch, punch._

She’s ruined everything.

_Punch, punch, punch._

Fucking Glimmer.

_Punch, punch-_

Adora’s movement is halted suddenly by a pair of lean arms wrapping her up from behind in a tight, tight hug. “Adora, it’s okay,” comes a familiar voice, strong and steady in her ear.

Shaking her head, Adora struggles against the arms, against the comfort they bring. She doesn’t deserve it.

“It’s not okay!” Her voice cracks, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “We’re gonna lose, and it’s all my fault.”

“No it’s not, you dummy.” Catra sounds irritated, which only makes Adora feel worse. Squeezing even tighter, she continues, “Hel missed a block, so you panicked and rushed the pass. I was so busy trying to outrun Sparkles I didn’t notice the throw was coming early. All of us made mistakes.”

“But I’m the quarterback,” Adora argues weakly, the deep pressure sapping her frantic energy. She slumps forward in Catra’s arms, facemask resting against the tackling dummy that’s fallen victim to her rampage. “It’s my responsibility.”

Catra scoffs. “Not everything is about you, Adora. We win as a team, we lose as a team.”

Adora shudders in Catra’s grip, her eyes squeezing shut and pushing out a few residual tears. When she fails to answer, Catra turns her around by her shoulders and claps a gloved hand against the side of her helmet. “Now come on, stop being an idiot and come cheer on the defense with me. We’ll do better next time.”

Nodding mutely, Adora reaches under her facemask to wipe her cheeks as subtly as possible before removing her helmet. Taking Catra’s offered hand, she lets herself be towed to the bench, where she slumps down with a massive sigh. This is the worst part. Watching. Being powerless. Having to rely on someone else.

Rogelio leans over from where he’s seated to Adora’s left, giving her a punch to the arm and an apologetic look that Adora returns. Rogelio’s a man of few words and right now she appreciates it, unsure if she could speak again without crying.

The next person to pile on the comfort train is Octavia, the Horde’s recently graduated captain and current defensive coordinator. After exchanging a few words with Scorpia on the sideline before the latest huddle, she toes Adora’s leg as she passes by the bench. “Chin up, Grayson. There’s still time.”

Unfortunately, the Royals are very good at killing time. Their offense slowly marches down the field, killing the clock while moving ever closer to the Horde’s end zone. If they keep this up, Adora’s never gonna get a chance to get back out there and turn this game around. They _were_ in the middle of a big comeback, they’d closed the gap to 31-27 with under four minutes to play and were poised to score a touchdown when she threw that damn interception. And now all she can do is watch as that shot at victory slips away.

She’s let everyone down. Grizzlor, Cobalt, she can even feel Ms. Weaver’s gaze burning down on her from the stands, most judgemental of them all. She can hear the lecture already. What kind of college will want a quarterback who chokes under pressure? Or a quarterback who throws a hissy fit on the sidelines? Quarterbacks are supposed to be calm and collected, not nervous wrecks who need hugs to calm down. Adora blinks back a new round of tears, rubbing her throbbing knuckles.

She can’t help the way her knee starts jiggling at the two-minute warning, sweaty palms flexing in their gloves. Her gaze darts around the field, breaths speeding up until the firm pressure of a hand squeezing hers breaks the oppressive trance.

Adora turns her head to meet Catra’s gaze, which steals her breath once again. The eye black on the girl’s cheekbones makes her eyes pop, even more stunning than her usual eyeliner. Her left eye is amber in color, the right a light blue, and despite the thousands of times she’s looked into them before, Adora is helpless not to stare.

“Don’t worry, Adora,” says Catra, unknowingly snapping her out of it. Adora blinks hard and Catra squeezes her hand again. “They’ve got this. Have a little faith.”

Adora squeezes back and returns her attention to the game. It’s slightly distracting when Catra adjusts her grip to lace their fingers together, but she tells herself not to overthink it. It’s just camaraderie, nothing more. Nothing to get excited about.

On the next play, the defense stops the runner at the line of scrimmage. Adora perks up a little, cautiously optimistic. It’s third and eight now, and the Royals will probably try to pass the ball to get the necessary yardage. Maybe the defense will be able to get an interception. Even if they don’t, if they can force Bright Moon to settle for a field goal the offense can still tie it with a touchdown, assuming Kyle doesn’t fuck up the extra point. There’s hope.

The tension in Catra’s grip tells Adora she’s thinking the same thing, both of them leaning forward in anticipation as the huddles break for the third down. When the ball is snapped, Scorpia breaks through and sacks the quarterback, popping the ball loose. One of their linebackers and the Bright Moon halfback both dive for it and the whole stadium sucks in a collective breath as several other players pile on, obscuring who has possession. It takes a moment, but once the extra players are peeled off the referee points to The Horde’s end zone, signalling a first down for them.

“Yes!” shouts Adora, jumping to her feet along with the rest of the bench. She and Rogelio share a high five before an elbow to her ribs brings her attention back to Catra.

“See, I told you they had it handled,” Catra brags with a toothy grin. “Now let’s go kick some princess ass!” Pulling her helmet on over her bushy ponytail, she runs out onto the field, slapping Adora’s ass on the way by.

Pulling her own helmet on to hide her blush, Adora hustles over to Grizzlor, their offensive coordinator. They quickly agree on a set of plays to run back-to-back without a huddle, saving time between downs if they’re not able to stop the clock. Adora quickly passes on the commands at the huddle and they break, taking their positions for the first down.

Lining up behind Rogelio, Adora glances downfield, scouting out the Bright Moon defense. They’re in the formation she expected, so she doesn’t have to make any last minute adjustments. When she locks eyes with the Bright Moon defensive captain staring her down from across the line of crouched blockers, her eyes narrow. The little asshole wants to play head games? Well Adora’s not gonna get thrown off her game, not this time.

Glimmer Uytengsu has been the biggest pain in Adora’s ass for the past four years. The Bright Moon free safety has picked off more of her passes than any other player in her career. Between her short stature and a lightning quick first step, Glimmer has an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere and foil Adora’s plans. Granted, she’s also a huge pain in Catra’s ass because she’s often covering her, but Catra’s not the one whose statistics take a hit every time Glimmer deflects or intercepts a pass.

Growling inwardly, Adora barks out her commands and Rogelio snaps her the ball. When none of her receivers get open within a couple seconds, she pitches it to her halfback Lonnie to run it out of bounds for a few yards and a clock stoppage.

They line up again right away for the second down, six yards to go. This time it’s a play action call where Adora fakes a handoff to Lonnie before turning and scoping out her receivers. Catra’s the primary target and she has a bit of separation from Glimmer, so Adora zeroes in and lobs a spiral pass into her best friend’s path.

The instant the ball leaves Adora’s hands, she knows she overthrew it. She can only watch helplessly as it soars over Catra’s head…

And into her hand.

That ball’s got to be a good nine feet in the air, but Catra’s stretched out in mid air, one hand up just high enough to pluck it from the sky. Okay, everyone knows Catra has insane hops, but that’s just fucking filthy.

Glimmer’s arms are already around Catra as she comes down, wrapping her up for the tackle. But when their feet hit the ground Catra slips out of her grip. Her knee comes dangerously close to hitting the ground as she drops, but she plants her free hand in the grass and manages to stay on her feet. She spins away from Glimmer and straight into the path of the incoming strong safety, but as he dives at her she jumps again, timing a somersault so he just misses her legs.

Adora’s jaw slips open as she watches, the flip unfolding almost in slow motion in front of her. When Catra’s feet hit the ground, everything rushes back to full speed as elation washes over Adora’s body. Catra has a clear path to the end zone, and no one in this league can catch her in a foot race. Not even Glimmer. Adora jumps, punching the air with a whoop, and starts sprinting down for the celebration before Catra even crosses the goal line.

Catra spikes the ball in the end zone with a whoop so loud Adora can hear it from fifty yards away, even over the contingent of Horde fans screaming in the stands over the shocked home crowd. It’s nearly a 50/50 split, like most games with their crosstown rivals. She headbutts another receiver in celebration then flexes both arms as Lonnie drops to one knee in front of her, pretending to take a picture.

Adora can’t help the heat simmering under her collar at the sight. Catra doesn’t have an excess of bulky muscle but she’s lean and cut, and a flex looks good on her.

The PA announcer’s voice wafts over the field through the speakers, calling the play as usual, but this time Adora bothers to listen. “Grayson’s pass caught by #96 Catrina Diaz for a 68 yard touchdown. Fright Zone High leads 33-31.”

Grayson to Diaz. Adora will never get tired of hearing that call.

The soft smile on Adora’s face widens when Catra comes bounding over to her, an ecstatic grin splitting her lips. Adora raises a hand for a high five but Catra ignores it, jumping up into Adora’s arms and wrapping her legs around her waist.

_Oh, wow._

Adora’s hands splay across Catra’s lower back, supporting her weight and mapping the curves and bones under her fingers. Even through her gloves the sensation of touching Catra this way is incredible, especially when there’s no room to breathe between them. Adora can’t speak, her brain too overloaded to form words, so she just holds Catra as steadily as Catra held her on the sidelines.

Tipping her head down, Catra rests her helmet against Adora’s and looks down into her eyes. “See? I told you. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

Adora’s head shakes in disbelief. “That was fucking insane, Catra.”

“The gymnastics came in handy after all.” Catra smirks down at her and Adora mirrors the expression right back. The melee in the stadium fades into the background as she holds Catra’s gaze, a kind of magical rush in her veins. It feels like forever before another body jumps into their hug, knocking some sense back into Adora.

“Get a room, you two!” crows Lonnie, bashing her own helmet against theirs. Adora chuckles awkwardly and loosens her grip on Catra, who slides off her hips and shares a high five with Lonnie. As they trot toward the sidelines, Adora can’t help wondering… did that feel the same for Catra as it did for her?

The team shares another cheer a moment later when Kyle kicks the extra point successfully, putting them up by three.

“Even Kyle’s on his game today,” chuckles Lonnie.

“Has to be, against the Royals,” Adora remarks flatly. Honestly, she feels a little bad for how much much shit the others give Kyle sometimes. He has a bad case of the nerves, just like her, but while he’s choked in a few situations he’s a perfectly competent placekicker on most days.

“Hasn’t stopped him before,” Catra snarks under her breath, nudging Lonnie and getting another laugh out of their roommate.

“Diaz!” Huntara hollers from down the sidelines, waving Catra onto the field with the rest of the kickoff team.

Sticking her tongue out at the other girls, Catra smirks, “Be right back. I’ve got something more important to do.”

Adora’s too busy watching the swagger of her shoulders and hips to comment on the sass. Not that she would admit that to anyone.

Catra’s the first one downfield after the ball is kicked, as usual. Oftentimes a receiver will call for a fair catch with her barrelling towards them, but with time running out and a long field to cover, that Hawk kid decides to try running it back. He manages to juke around Catra, but she angles him right into a tackle from Scorpia. He got maybe five yards on the return, if that.

Good, there will be no fucking shanties this time.

The Horde’s defense stymies the Royals this drive, allowing only six yards on the first three downs and forcing them to risk a play on the fourth down. When Scorpia and another lineman take down the runner at the line of scrimmage, the Horde bench and fans erupt. That’s the game. There’s a little under a minute to go but the offense can easily run the clock out between plays.

The Horde’s offense is easily in field goal range but Sergeant Cobalt decides to just have Adora take a knee on the last play, running out the clock rather than risking a disaster with a live ball. Just as she goes down Scorpia and some of the other defenders dump the water cooler over his head, prompting another cheer from the Fright Zone contingent in the stands. The cooler might be a bit of an overreaction for winning a regular season game, but after what happened last time they played Bright Moon Adora’s not about to question it.

The Horde players cluster together to congratulate each other and salute their fans, who give them another raucous round of applause. When that dies down, all that’s left to do is shake hands with their defeated opponents. Adora brings up the rear of the handshake line, going through the motions. She’s not a fan of all the forced contact, but if one of the Horde’s captains were to get caught being a bad sport it would only reinforce their violent and distasteful reputation. So she grimaces and bears it.

The only player she exchanges more than two words with is the Bright Moon quarterback, Bow. They’ve been to a few quarterback camps together and are actually on good terms for the leaders of such a heated rivalry. Seeing the boy’s bright smile coming up in the line, Adora extends an arm for him to clasp. “Nice work, Franklin.”

“You too, Grayson,” he says with a grin. Pulling her in, he gives her just a short, firm hug with his free arm. He knows Adora hates gentle and lingering touches, and respects her wishes despite her never explaining why. In return, Adora never calls him by his real name, even as a joke. That may also have something to do with knowing how pissy Catra will get if you call her Catrina.

Besides, if Adora had a name like Boris she would hunt her biological parents down just to murder them. Even the PA announcer knows better than to call him that, at their home games. And anyway, Bow really suits him. He is known, after all, for his sniper-like accuracy and impressive range.

Adora punches Bow’s shoulder as they pull apart. “See you in the playoffs?”

“You better believe it, girl,” he drawls, rolling the R in a very gay way that makes Adora chuckle. Bow is perhaps the most flamboyant bisexual she’s ever met. The guy has a bi flag towel hanging out of his pants for fuck’s sakes. Probably not a lot of people notice, what with how it fits the Royals color scheme and all, but still. His openness about his sexuality is part of why they’re close, what with Adora being possibly the most obvious lesbian in the universe.

Not on such great terms are the pair just in front of Adora. Glimmer’s the last in Bright Moon’s handshake line and still has her helmet on, probably out of shame or to hide her tears. Adora’s been there.

Slipping her hand from Glimmer’s grudging shake, Catra pats the top of her helmet condescendingly. “Better luck next time, Sparkles.”

Adora can’t help but wince. She can see the girl seething under her helmet, tiny hands squeezing into fists. She might not care for Glimmer, but if someone said that to her she’d burst into tears.

When Adora extends a hand for Glimmer to shake, she ignores it and brushes by Adora, bumping her slightly on the way by. Watching as she stomps away, Adora remarks, “Okaaaay, good game to you too, captain.”

Catching up to a waiting Catra, Adora gives the most disapproving look she’s capable of giving Catra. Which is to say, not very disapproving at all. She tries to make up for it with her voice. “Do you have to taunt her like that?”

“What?” smirks Catra. “It’s fun. You see the look on her face?”

“Maybe she’s not the best person to piss off. Her mom’s the head coach,” Adora says flatly.

“Oh, I know,” chuckles Catra. “She was starting as a sophomore.”

“So were we.”

“Yeah, but we were actually good.” Slinging an arm over Adora’s shoulders, she pulls her in close and steers her toward the dressing rooms. “Come on, let’s hit the showers. You smell like Kyle’s jockstrap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for a wildly different take on things when we get our first Catra POV chapter.
> 
> I made Catra and the other hybrids human in this au mostly because I didn’t want to think about how the rules and equipment would have to be adapted to account for different species lol. It's not because I'm against fluffy Catra.


	2. Most Valuable Attention Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your reference, [this](https://www.unh.edu/unhtoday/sites/default/files/styles/article_huge/public/article/2020/football-locker-room-impact.jpg?itok=Qn3xPw9l) is the style of dressing room the opening scene is set in.
> 
> As mentioned previously, this story is gonna explore a lot of canon themes and make a bunch of references to canon scenes. So, yeah, not all of it will be super lighthearted.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for implications of physical abuse.

“Adora! Adora!” Half a dozen reporters barge past the curtain and into the girls’ half of the dressing room, one of them jostling Catra with a camera on the way by. Catra hisses at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. What else is new?

The media scrum forms around Adora’s stall, infringing on Catra’s space. This is the shitty part about dressing next to Adora. At least Catra’s stall is right on the end, it gives her a little open space on one side. She really hates people invading what little space she can call her own. Not that she cares much for people to begin with.

"How important was it to The Horde to win this game after the Royals beat you at Homecoming?” one reporter asks.

“Oh, it was huge,” says Adora. “Chances are we’ll meet in the playoffs, and we needed to make a statement, especially after they won on our home turf. And yeah, now we’re tied for the league lead. We wanted to go undefeated, but 8-1’s not bad.”

Another reporter pipes up, “Surely some colleges have reached out to you by now with scholarship offers. Do you have any news on where you might be playing next season?”

Catra can’t help glancing over when she hears that, and she sees a brief flicker of panic in Adora’s eyes before they go stony. “No comment.”

“It looked like you took that late interception hard,” interjects a third reporter, “but you came back to make a game-saving throw. What did Catrina say to you on the sidelines to help you recover?”

Catra scowls at the use of her full name, and also at the fact that he’s asking Adora about the encounter when she’s literally right there. And full offense, but Adora didn’t make a game-saving throw. She fucked up and Catra saved her ass, and not for the first time. No other receiver would have been able to catch that pass, let alone convert it for a touchdown.

Adora’s eyes briefly flick to Catra, lips turning up into one of those soft smiles Catra is used to seeing first thing in the morning. Her heart leaps against her ribcage and she can only hope it doesn’t show in her face.

Then that smile falters a bit. Returning her gaze to the reporter, Adora answers, “That it was going to be okay, that I’d do better next time.”

Wow.

Catra scoffs, turning away. Adora making everything all about herself, what a surprise.

Ugh. Look, she cares about Adora, she does. Adora’s the person she loves most in the world, the person who makes her feel safest, the person she most admires. She just wishes Adora felt the same way about her, that she’d accept her comfort without complaint and give her a little more credit for what she does.

It’s not really about Adora anyway, she knows that. It’s the damn media and their obsession with quarterbacks. Catra broke the Fright Zone High single-season record for kicks returned for touchdowns last week, but did anyone ask her about it? No. It would just be nice if someone other than the school paper had any inclination to talk to her about her achievements or show any interest in what she might have to say. The school paper doesn’t really count, as they make a point of covering the achievements of the supporting cast. Or maybe it’s just that Entrapta hates the crowds that form around captains Adora and Scorpia.

Speak of the devil, Entrapta slips past the curtain and, seeing the scrum around Adora’s stall, motions Catra over to join her in the open space at the end of the row. Entrapta transferred to Fright Zone High from Bright Moon last year for the robotics program, but she’s shown an affinity for football as well. She’s a brilliant analyst, all about the details, and her articles are consistently interesting even if the writing is a little run-on and statistically heavy. That’s what editors are supposed to be for. Catra cares too much about her badass reputation to write for the paper, but she could teach those idiots a thing or two about sentence structure and forming a proper argument.

Entrapta starts the interview by asking Catra to walk her through The Flip™, the footage of which has apparently already amassed several hundred views on YouTube. Probably none of the professional reporters are tapped in enough to know that kind of thing - if they were, maybe they’d bother asking her about it.

Her next question is, “If you return a kickoff or punt for a touchdown against Thaymor next week, you’ll have one in each game of the regular season, a feat never accomplished before at the high school level in this state. How do you feel about being on the cusp of such an accomplishment?”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” says Catra. “Don’t wanna jinx it.” But honestly, she’s confident she’ll get it done. Thaymor is easy pickings, 2-6 heading into this week with abysmal defensive rankings. She’s looking forward to padding her stats next Friday, to put it nicely. Point differential is the tie-breaker between them and Bright Moon for top spot in the league, so she doesn’t even have to feel bad about it.

Entrapta thanks her for her time and puts away her recorder, scopes out the room for another player to interview. But she doesn’t move. After a moment’s hesitation, she looks back and asks, “Does it ever bother you that Adora gets all the credit when you’re the most valuable player?”

Catra’s eyes narrow. What the fuck kind of question is that? Entrapta’s recorder is off, so it seems to be off the record, but it’s still insensitive as hell. Not that that’s enough to shake Catra. Between Entrapta and Adora, she’s very used to accidental insensitivity. Comes with the territory.

Chuckling to cover her discomfort, Catra flashes a toothy grin. “Wow, someone’s jumping the gun. Nominations aren’t even out yet.”

“No, I mean you literally are the most valuable player,” insists Entrapta. “You lead the regional league in not only total receiving yards and touchdowns, but also the averages for yards after the catch, punt returns, and kickoff returns, all of which point to you being the one driving your big plays. Plus, the kickoff and punt team’s ceded yardage have dropped by 41 and 63% respectively since Huntara got you pulling double duty on special teams.”

That last bit of trivia, Catra owes mostly to her hormones. One game last year she was on the rag and basically frothing at the mouth, and Huntara decided to use that rage to her advantage. She threw a furious Catra back out on the field for a punt after she dropped the third down pass, to give her a chance to tackle some people and ‘fuck shit up,’ as she put it. Catra hit the receiver so hard he dropped the ball and she recovered it for a touchdown. The rest is history.

Grunting out a chuckle, she concedes, “Should have known you’d have the stats to back it up.”

“I’m a scientist, I pride myself on having all the facts,” states Entrapta. She shifts her weight, visibly hemming and hawing for a second before reaching out a tremulous hand. Awkwardly patting Catra’s shoulder, she declares, “If you aren’t voted MVP at year’s end, I’m filing an official grievance. Just so you know.”

Catra’s lips curl slightly in a fond, genuine smile. “Thanks, Trapta.”

Entrapta wanders across the room to speak to one of their safeties and Catra wedges herself back into her stall, casually hip checking the reporter halfway blocking her path, and returns her attention to packing the stuff she brought from home back into her backpack. Thank god the school takes care of their pads and other laundry, she’s always had a sensitive nose and can’t wait to get out of this toxic waste zone. She’s just zipping up the bag when a sharp flick against her ear makes her yelp and whirl to her right.

The culprit is none other than Lonnie, of course. Her arm is braced high against the edge of Catra’s stall, her eyebrow cocked. “What’s taking so long, Diaz?” When she reaches out to repeat the flick Catra swats her hand away and growls, which just makes Lonnie smirk. “Oooo, grumpy kitty.”

“Fuck off, Lonnie. Do not make me break your fucking-”

Catra’s threat is interrupted by a bout of Adora’s overly loud laughter, which startles them both into staring silently.

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, I did that!” Adora agrees, sounding almost surprised at whatever the reporter said. She continues to beam for a second before her face goes blank, eyes scanning the room. Clearing her throat, she tugs down on her jacket nervously. “But, uh, I mean, the whole team did that. Not _just_ me. Thank you, though.”

Leaning into Catra’s side, Lonnie mutters in her ear, “If her head gets any bigger she won’t fit through the door.”

Catra snorts. “Yeah, and it’s all in her forehead.”

That gets a laugh out of Lonnie, a good one, and it sparks a prideful little smile on Catra’s face. She much prefers Lonnie now that most of the time she’s laughing with her, not at her.

Despite their sketchy past, not to mention their lifelong competition for the scraps of Ms. Weaver’s resources and attention, Catra can grudgingly admit Lonnie doesn’t get enough credit for what she does either. The scrappy halfback consistently gets 65+ yard games, many of the plays short yardage. Her stocky but small build gives her a great mix of strength to power through blockers and the ability to slip tackles. She finishes games with as many bruises as anyone but never complains.

Not about the bruises, anyway. Groaning loudly, she rolls away and clunks her head back against the wall. “This is gonna take forever,” she grouses. “Can I ride with you?”

“You’re not going out with Scorpia?” asks Catra. She’s pleased by how normal the question sounds coming out of her mouth. Neither overinvested nor dismissive. Just the right amount of interested for a casual inquiry about your roommate’s girlfriend.

“Nah, she’s talking strategy with Sarge. Who knows how long that’ll take.” Lonnie shrugs. “Maybe we’ll meet up later.”

Scooping her backpack off her seat, Catra stretches up to grab her motorcycle helmet from the top shelf and nods out the door. “A’ight, let’s roll.”

On the other side of the curtain Kyle and Rogelio are packed and ready to go, standing around awkwardly in wait. Flashing a wicked smirk on the way by, Catra teases them, “Sorry boys, looks like you gotta wait for Her Majesty.”

Lonnie chuckles beside her, no doubt enjoying their expressions of dismay as much as Catra. Usually she and the boys ride with Adora to and from school, as well as practices and games. Because while Adora has noticeable difficulty sequencing tasks and getting things done on time, she cares so much that she always manages to be early for school anyway. Catra’s a bit more of a wildcard that way, and none of the others want to risk catching Ms. Weaver’s wrath for tardiness. Catra gets her wrath either way, so she gave up trying to avoid it a long time ago.

Adora’s designated driver status is just one more point of contention between Catra and Ms. Weaver. Adora received her car on her sixteenth birthday, along with the funds for driver’s ed classes. Weaver’s reasoning was that Adora could start driving them all to school, saving her time in the mornings and allowing the teenagers to sleep in later. When Catra very accurately pointed out that they could have been driving themselves to school several months earlier if she’d gotten the car and the lessons instead, Weaver responded that Adora was the only one responsible enough for a car and that if Catra wanted a vehicle she could pay for it out of her own pocket.

So, naturally, Catra went out and bought herself a motorbike.

For something that was essentially a spite purchase, Melog has been a godsend. The monthly payments and insurance and gas are totally worth the mental health boost. No matter what’s going on in her head, going out for a ride is bound to clear it, put things in perspective and make them seem a little more surmountable. And there really is nothing better than driving herself, steering the course of her own life for a change.

Besides, Catra hated being crammed in the backseat with Lonnie and Kyle, listening to Adora’s mindless humming as she drove. Usually the sound is endearing, but it wasn’t when it so nonchalantly echoed back from a position Catra had been denied for no good reason. And Adora’s so slow, for the love of god. Who the hell names their car Swift anything if they’re gonna drive it like a granny?

When they arrive back at the house, Catra locks the spare helmet up in the mini trunk on the back and follows Lonnie inside. They leave their shoes in the rack and head straight for the stairs without saying a word, but clearly their footsteps are distinct enough nonetheless, because a stern voice rings out from the back of the house.

“Catra, come here.”

A cold rush surges through Catra’s head and down through her limbs, rooting her to the floor. That is not good. That is never good.

An unexpected hand on Catra’s shoulder makes her jump slightly. When she turns her head, she finds Lonnie watching her with concern. Helpless concern. Mouth twitching, she mutters, “Better get it over with.”

Rolling her eyes in gratitude, Catra grips her backpack straps and follows the voice to the master bedroom. Swallowing hard at the threshold, she forces a pleasant enough smile and steps into the room. “Yes?”

Ms. Weaver doesn’t look up from the stack of papers on her desk. Homework to grade, no doubt. The mere thought is enough to make Catra shudder. She and Adora were Weaver’s students as well as her wards for a whole year in grade 3, and it was the most terrifying year of Catra’s life. Being punished at home for her behavior in school and vice-versa, there was no escape. She spent much of that year crying herself to sleep while clinging to Adora, dreading what the next day may bring. Whoever decided it was a good idea to let this woman work with children was clearly on something.

Putting one finished page aside, Weaver raises her head, her cold green eyes locking onto Catra’s. “Close the door.”

Catra’s heart leaps into her throat but she fights the impulse to freeze, as that could only be interpreted as disobedience, the ultimate sin in this household. Turning away for a second gives her the chance to push out a hard breath and reset her neutral expression, anyway. Still, her voice comes out a bit halting when she asks, “What do you need, Ms. Weaver?”

Suddenly a thought occurs to her. Maybe this isn’t bad. Sometimes when Adora’s had a really good game, Weaver will call her in here and present her with some kind of knick knack or trinket as a token of her exceptional performance. Catra always thought it was stupid, made fun of the collection of junk on the windowsill, but she can’t help the burble of excitement in her gut at the thought of claiming a piece for herself. Her eyes light up, hands clapping together in front of her. “Oo, are you giving me-”

“Was that entirely necessary?” Weaver interrupts her.

Catra stops, mouth flapping like a fish. “What?”

Oh no, does she mean the display of affection in the end zone? That wasn’t meant to be… she just got caught up in the moment. She wasn’t trying to-

“Your gaudy acrobatics,” specifies Weaver, leaving Catra equal parts relieved and confused. Tipping her head, she condescends, “We all know you love attention, Catra, but that was just pathetic. Do you really need that badly to upstage Adora?”

“Upstage?” scoffs Catra. “She did her part, I did mine. What, did you want me to not take the points when I had the chance? Bright Moon has the best defense in the state. We could have lost.”

“There are less showy ways to shirk tackles.”

Crossing her arms with a huff, Catra retorts, “I was thinking about getting a touchdown, that’s all. I’m sorry if it offends you that I recycled my gymnastics training that _you_ paid for. I’d think you’d be happy it was no longer going to waste.”

Weaver’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Do not take that tone with me, Catra. You know better.” 

A chill runs down Catra’s spine. She knows exactly what Ms. Weaver is threatening her with. But the sudden tension in her muscles pales in comparison to the tension rising in her throat. Her voice almost cracks as she protests, “If I was Adora, you’d be throwing a party in my honor. I won the game for us, how can you be mad about that?”

“Oh, you think you won the game? You are but one part of a well-oiled machine, though a particularly squeaky one,” remarks Weaver. “If it weren’t for Adora no colleges would be interested in you at all, not even the second-rate ones you’ve somehow managed to attract. Do not forget your place. Am I understood?”

No, not really. Catra hasn’t done anything wrong, only played her part to the best of her ability. But she desperately wants to escape the situation before it escalates, or before she starts crying. So she nods, and lies. “Yes, Ms. Weaver.”

When she turns for the door, that haunting voice sounds from behind her. “I didn’t say you were dismissed.”

Determined not to let Weaver see how much her words hurt, Catra sets her jaw and blinks her stinging eyes. Turning back, she raises her eyebrows expectantly but doesn’t respond verbally. Just enough sass to get her point across without triggering a blow up. She hopes.

Weaver doesn’t even notice. “Don’t forget rent is due Sunday,” she says impassively, her attention back on her papers. Catra’s heart squeezes a little tighter. Of course her soon-to-be former guardian can’t even muster the tiniest bit of enthusiasm for the occasion. “Is your job going to be able to pay the bills, or are you finally going to sell that infernal machine?”

Up until this year Catra’s liked her fall birthday and being the oldest of the crew, one small thing she has on Adora. But now she’s not exactly thrilled about having to pay rent through most of her senior year while the rest of them get to freeload much of the way. It’s not like Weaver’s gonna charge Adora rent come January, either. Adora needs to put all her time into training and studies because she has _such high potential_. Her learning disabilities notwithstanding, but she gets accommodations for those, of course.

“Don’t worry about that,” Catra says flatly. “I’m an adult, I’ll manage.”

Chuckling dismissively, Weaver remarks, “We’ll see about that.” Eyes still on her papers, she waves a hand in Catra’s general direction. “You may go.”

Catra’s backpack feels heavier than normal as she climbs the stairs, her toes dragging and catching the edges on the way up. When she makes it to their room she dumps her bag on the floor and plunks down hard on Adora’s bunk, messing up her neat covers. She’ll be torn between guilt and satisfaction later when Adora shows up and frowns at the disturbance, fretting as she tries to smooth out the rumples, but for now she’s reveling in the pettiness of it all.

What? She never said she was the perfect friend. In fact, she’s been told quite pointedly that she’s a bad friend. Since then she’s oscillated between trying to be a better person and thinking she might as well earn the title. Ms. Weaver and all her bullshit tends to be a force pushing her towards the latter. (Her school counselor told her that’s a phenomenon known as ‘learned helplessness’ and Catra said ‘no shit.’)

Sighing into her hands, Catra lets them slide down her face and brings her chin to rest on her fists.

“You okay?” asks Lonnie. With her lack of intonation, it’s hard to tell if she’s asking out of genuine sympathy or mere obligation.

Snorting under her breath, Catra cracks, “You’d have heard it if I wasn’t.”

Lonnie flinches slightly, and for a second Catra almost regrets the joke. She watches as Lonnie’s fingers furl into a tight fist before splaying back out, but her voice comes out flat as ever when she clarifies, “I mean in general.”

Catra nods toward the stairs. “You hear all that?”

“Bits and pieces,” shrugs Lonnie. “It’s not like you guys were yelling.”

Forehead crinkling, Catra frowns down at her feet. “Lon, am I a showy attention whore?”

“You want my honest opinion?” deadpans Lonnie. Catra scowls and chucks Adora's pillow at her but she catches it easily, a cackle rising up from her throat. “I’m kidding. Well, a little.”

That only earns her another glare. Sighing, she rubs the back of her neck, eyes floating away as she nibbles her lip. “You’re no worse than Adora,” she finally concludes, “it just looks like it because Adora doesn’t have to try.”

Throwing her hands to the heavens, Catra grouses, “Oh, thank fuck somebody understands.”

“I mean, the somersault was the perfect move,” muses Lonnie, brow furrowed in thought. “He might have clipped your legs if you’d just jumped. It was a little showy, but what’s football if not showy?”

“Right? Who gives a fuck? We’re all just doing our best, using what we have. I’m sorry if I happened to be a gymnast.” Gaze dropping to her clenched fists, Catra sighs. “Weaver never let me hear the end of it when I quit. Why is she upset I’m using it now?”

“Because you’re not using it how she wanted you to,” Lonnie answers immediately. “Not following her perfect little plan.” When Catra stares at her in shock, she responds with a lazy blink. “What?”

“Nothing,” mutters Catra, eyes flitting away. “It’s just creepy how right you are.” She flops backwards, arms spreading the length of Adora’s bunk. “She’s always been pissed about me getting in the way of her plans for Adora.”

“She’d kill you if she knew Adora was holding out for a college that’ll take both of you,” murmurs Lonnie. Her tone is neither sympathetic nor a warning. It’s just plain facts.

Catra blinks impassively, deadened eyes staring up at the wooden slats supporting her mattress. “That’s not even an exaggeration.”

A silent moment passes before the pillow lands on Catra’s face. “Congrats on the big play, by the way,” says Lonnie, an obvious and pathetic attempt at consolation. But at least she tried. “It really was something.”

“Thanks,” mutters Catra, hugging the pillow to her chest.

Lonnie’s fingers tap away at her phone for a few seconds. “If it makes you feel any better,” she adds, “that vid’s at almost 2000 views now. Maybe someone important will see it. See what you can do.”

That ignites a flicker of hope in Catra’s chest, a fleeting light feeling she can’t help but entertain. The possibilities… Adora and her at the same school, still playing together, sharing a room with just the two of them, no Ms. Weaver getting all up in their business. Maybe things could be better then. Maybe…

No, she’s getting carried away. Adora may have given Catra so much comfort and companionship over the years, but she doesn’t want her that way. Not like Catra wants her. That is maybe the one thing in the universe that Ms. Weaver is right about. Besides, with the way her life has gone so far, Catra knows better than to count on someone seeing her value, recognizing let alone nurturing her potential. This is why she stopped caring years ago, or tried to at least.

Squeezing the pillow tighter to her chest, she does her best to smother that spark. To choke it to death before it can do the same to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sorry.


	3. Useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh yeah so this chapter is mostly worldbuilding and self-indulgence, but if you're into this fic you'll probably like it anyway. ;)
> 
> A glossary term that will be useful: "the pocket" refers to the protective pocket formed by the offensive linemen around their quarterback.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for references to ableism, child abuse, and white privilege/systemic racism in the foster system.

Adora wakes with a grumble the next morning, face turning into the pillow as she pushes back at the encroaching wakefulness. She’s sore, and tired, and doesn’t want to get up. She forgot to do her post-game stretches last night because there were so many media questions after winning such a meaningful rivalry game, and she was wiped before she even got home. Combine that with being woken up at some ungodly hour by Lonnie literally falling in the window, and waking up feeling rested was out of the question.

Unfortunately, sleep is eluding her. It’s unseasonably warm for late October, too hot to keep her comforter on, and without the soothing pressure of its weight there’s no way she can relax enough to fall back to sleep. So she rolls out of bed with a groan, rubbing her eyes. Lonnie’s still passed out on the bed across the room, but Catra’s bunk is empty. Odd. Adora’s usually the first to wake up any given day, even weekends.

The mystery is solved when Adora goes down for breakfast. Their dining area is beside Ms. Weaver’s room at the back of the house, with a view of the yard. Out the open door Adora can see Catra putting in her paces in their obstacle course. Running through tires, jumping over hurdles, juking and spinning around cones, carrying a football the whole way.

Catra’s explosive power is a marvel to watch. That’s why Adora is staring, obviously. It has nothing to do with how she’s dressed in training shorts and a sports bra and there’s beads of sweat rolling down her abs. Nothing at all.

Stopping at the end of a circuit, Catra pauses to wipe her brow and take a swig of water. As she flicks away the sweat with the back of her hand, her eyes land on Adora and she smirks. Adora looks down immediately, directing her blush at the table as she sits down with her toast and banana. Hopefully Catra didn’t notice where her eyes had been mere seconds before. And if she did, well, Adora can always find excuses. Nothing wrong with admiring a fellow athlete, right?

The squeak of the screen door opening pulls Adora from her thoughts and she looks up. Catra leans against the doorframe, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, Adora.”

Grateful she has a reason to swallow what with the toast in her mouth, Adora nods and reciprocates the greeting. “Morning, Catra.”

Still grinning, Catra slips by behind Adora’s chair, brushing against her ponytail ever so slightly as she passes by on her way to the kitchen. Ugh, does she have to do that?

“You’re up early,” remarks Adora, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

“Not really,” Catra argues absently, rooting through the cupboards. Emerging victorious with a shaker cup, she retrieves their tub of protein powder from under the counter and dumps in a massive scoop. “If anything, you slept in.”

“Well, maybe a little,” Adora admits, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit. “But Saturdays…” she motions out at the yard, “usually you wait for me. Or, well, I wait for you.”

“I guess I’m feeling uncharacteristically motivated today,” Catra says too cheerfully, a bite to her smile that makes Adora recoil slightly. She can’t help fearing she’s said something wrong. She does that a lot.

“Oh, I wasn’t dragging you, Catra,” she clarifies. “I know you work hard.”

“Yeah, I know _you_ do,” mutters Catra. Adora raises an eyebrow but she’s turned away, moving to the sink to add water. Approaching the table as she shakes up the drink, she tells her, “I didn’t ditch you, I just figured I could use some extra practice first.”

Adora can’t contain an affectionate little smirk. “After what you did yesterday? I think not.”

“I have less schools nipping at my heels.”

“Does everything have to be a competition with you?”

“Says the most competitive person I know,” retorts Catra. Adora can’t help smiling at that, either.

A sly little twinkle comes over Catra’s eyes, a gleam that only comes from winning. As competitive as Adora is, sometimes she doesn’t mind losing to Catra because she gets to see it. Seeing Catra smile, really smile, is a treat that fills a kind of yawning void in her chest. Catra’s had a hard life, to say the least, and on top of that she’s not exactly a people person. But she’s always been an Adora person.

Now that smile is threatening to make her heart beat out of her chest. The feeling is enthralling, and terrifying, and maddening. It’s not fair that Catra can reduce her to a puddle of useless lesbianism with just a look. How did she get that power, and where can Adora buy it? Honestly, she’s kind of jealous.

Really. It should be illegal for one person to be so smart, so athletic, so good-looking and so smooth. Catra used to get bullied a lot and she still exists on the fringes of high school society, an outcast of her own making, but she’s dated way more girls than Adora. In fact, Adora has dated a grand total of zero girls. It’s not that she’s had no opportunities - she gets a lot of attention - but she mostly ends up fumbling her way through flirting, out of a lack of both skill and interest. The cheerleaders and preps that gravitate towards her aren’t really her type. They’re supposed to be, she knows that, but she’s never been one to conform to societal conventions. Not out of rebellion, like Catra, but because they all make no fucking sense. Why shouldn’t she want to be with someone who’s like her, who shares her interests?

Adora happens to be a quarterback. She also happens to like women who could pick her up and throw her across a room. Catra would not cut it out with the MILF jokes after the first day of freshman year when they were in gym class together and Huntara turned out to be their teacher. According to Catra she went starry-eyed the second Huntara walked in and then spent the whole first week following her around like a puppy. That’s not exactly how Adora remembers it, but she does know she was so overwhelmed by the woman’s bulky, muscular figure and deep, no-nonsense voice that Catra had to elbow her to remind her to say her name during introductions. Maybe she stumbled over her words a little but hey, her mouth was kinda dry. Not her fault.

Despite her best (or maybe second best) efforts, Adora’s eyes are drawn back to Catra’s abs as she tips her head back to down her shake. Maybe the size isn’t a requirement, but she does like someone who’s strong, in one way or another. Someone who’s a challenge. Adora likes being pushed, and pushing back. She knows how to do that.

“Earth to Adora,” snarks Catra, snapping her fingers in front of Adora’s face.

Adora’s eyelids flutter. “Huh?”

“I asked if you’re ready to work out.”

Wolfing down her banana, Adora answers through her full mouth. “Always.”

***

A few hours later the two of them are back in the kitchen, trading lighthearted hip checks while cooking lunch. Bow would undoubtedly give Adora a lecture about knife safety right about now, paranoid mom friend he is, but it’s second nature to slip into teasing banter and play fighting with Catra. Even with sharp objects and hot pans involved.

They’ve worked up quite the appetite. After running through their usual Saturday morning workout, they decide to throw in some passing drills at the nearby park. It’s more complicated than most people realize, coordinating Catra’s running patterns with Adora’s throws, but after six years of playing together and a lifetime of friendship it’s pretty much effortless for them at this point. Still, it’s good to stay sharp.

Besides, it’s fun. Especially when passing dudebros stare at them in shock and awe. Obviously women can play football too, there’s plenty of them in the pros, but some guys still believe women are inherently less athletic and/or can’t handle taking a hit. They should meet Lonnie, she could teach them a thing or two about taking hits.

Compounding their exhaustion is how they walked to and from the park, despite the opportunity to turn the ten-minute walk into a two-minute drive. This is nothing new, though, rather a long-established holding pattern. Catra refuses to let Adora drive her around when she can easily drive herself, but Adora’s not comfortable getting on the back of a bike. Especially not one driven by Catra. And taking two vehicles is just a waste of gas for such a short walk, so why bother?

Adora misses driving around with Catra, blasting music and shooting the shit, but Catra is determined not to go back to being the passenger. And no offense or anything, but Adora doesn’t trust her to drive Swift Wind. The girl’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and not exactly known for being responsible. She pops wheelies in the school parking lot and then zooms away in a cloud of dust, for fuck’s sakes. And any time Adora even considers getting on Melog with her, trusting Catra and catching a bit of a thrill, she remembers the incident a few years ago.

Adora was younger and stupider then. They were walking home from the corner store on a hot summer day, sipping on their slushies when they spotted a shopping cart abandoned in an alley. When Catra offered to take her for a ride, Adora giggled and hopped in, eager for a little mischief and excitement. She thought it was funny when Catra would pick up some speed and her feet, resting them on the undercarriage and riding along with her. She thought it was funny until Catra did it on a hill and ended up losing control, sending them both crashing into a tree. Adora got a concussion and Catra ended up with a plethora of bruises and a broken wrist. Most of said injuries weren’t from the crash itself, but they don’t talk about that. It’s easier not to.

Her and Catra are halfway through their omelets when Lonnie finally drags her ass down the stairs. Her steps are heavy, almost as loud as her yawn.

“Afternoon, sleepyhead,” Adora teases her as she enters the kitchen. “How late did you get in last night?”

Lonnie’s eyes widen and pointedly flick over to the master bedroom. Oh, shit. Adora’s poor volume control and situational awareness just struck again. She’s been trying to be better about that, not so careless with her speech. This would not be the first time it’s gotten one of the gang in trouble.

“I was back just after curfew,” says Lonnie, making sure to match Adora’s volume in case she was overheard. “Maybe if your granny ass could stay up that late you’d have noticed.”

“Hey, I was tired,” Adora whines in protest, though she most certainly was up past curfew. She can take one for the team, especially when the predicament is her fault. “It was a rough game.”

Snorting, Catra snipes, “Oh yeah, super rough for you, hiding in the pocket like a sissy.”

Adora gasps, hand flying to her chest in what she hopes reads as mock offense. Because, well, she might actually be a little offended. “I am not a sissy!”

Blinking in that totally blank way she does, Lonnie asks, “You know how many times I was tackled last night?”

“In the game or after?” quips Adora.

Catra laughs, genuinely laughs, and Adora smiles with relief. That’s good. Mentions of Scorpia will often set off one of Catra’s brooding episodes, but maybe that’s getting better now. It’s a long story, many of the details of which Adora is missing. This is what she does know:

Catra and Scorpia used to be close. Or, well, Scorpia and Entrapta kind of latched onto Catra like some kind of emo queen bee and followed her around most of last year, seeking her approval. (Apparently neither of them clued into her very low people tolerance.) With Scorpia, it was obviously more than approval that she was after. Adora was wary of the advances on her friend that she thought (hoped?) was not interested, but admittedly was also very aware of how buff and beautiful her co-captain was and slightly jealous of the attention.

Anyway, there was some kind of drama near the end of last year involving a drunken makeout at a party followed by a big fight, and then suddenly the two of them weren’t speaking. At that same party, before all the drama went down, a very drunk Lonnie slung a meaty arm around Adora’s shoulders and went on a rant about how Scorpia deserved someone better, someone who would treat her like the queen she is. Apparently useless pansexuals are also a thing.

Eventually Lonnie did get her act together and ask the girl out, and they’ve been happily dating ever since. Maybe it’s still in the honeymoon phase, but Lonnie is so over the moon for Scorpia it’s ridiculous. She tries not to talk about it in front of Catra, though, because even if she didn’t care for Catra’s behavior she’s not an insensitive jerk (anymore, anyway). It’s not even necessarily that Catra is jealous (though she might be, Adora’s not great at reading these things), but clearly whatever happened between them hurt her a lot and reminders of it often send her into a state.

Knowing this just as well as Adora, Lonnie hesitates a moment before gently asking, “Hey, uh, Catra? Is it okay if Scorpia comes to your party tomorrow?”

“Duh,” answers Catra, waving off the question like it’s ridiculous. “She’s Entrapta’s best friend.” Those last two words sound just a little strained, and Adora’s struck by the urge to reach out and take Catra’s hand. But she knows calling attention to the slip will only make it worse. Catra almost always rebuffs Adora’s affection when she’s pretending to be fine, apparently resenting that she can tell she’s upset in the first place.

“I mean, it’s her house, but it’s your party,” reasons Lonnie. “It’s okay if you don’t want her there.”

Catra frowns down at her plate, picking at her eggs. “She actually wants to come?”

“Of course she does, Catra.” Lonnie almost sounds surprised. “Things have been better, and it’s not like she ever wanted…” Smartly aborting that train of thought, Lonnie runs a hand through her dreads. “But look, she doesn’t wanna make you uncomfortable. And neither do I.”

“How the times change,” Catra remarks bitterly.

Lonnie’s eyes narrow. “Jesus, you on the rag again or something?” When Catra doesn’t answer, she scoffs and moves towards the fridge. “Look, I’m just trying to be polite. If you’re gonna be a dick about it, never mind.”

Catra scowls slightly but doesn’t reply. Not until Lonnie emerges with a leftover sandwich and turns for the stairs.

“She can come,” she says quietly but decisively. Glancing over her shoulder to meet Lonnie’s eye, she murmurs, “I… I’d like it if she came.”

Deadpan visage cracking slightly, Lonnie responds with a tiny, proud smile. “Great. I’ll tell her.”

Adora watches as Catra returns her attention to her plate, absentmindedly picking at her food. That omelet clearly holds no appeal for her anymore. Still not wanting to draw attention to her distress, Adora resolves to help in any small way she can. “You want first shower?”

Mouth twitching, Catra gives her a grateful nod and pushes away from the table, chair scraping against the floor in a way that makes Adora cringe. “Yeah, thanks.” Noticing the grimace on Adora’s face as she stands, she replies with an apologetic one of her own. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Adora just smiles, only hoping the expression doesn’t reek of pity.

And when Catra returns to their room from her abnormally long shower with puffy eyes and avoids Adora’s gaze, she doesn’t call attention to that either.

***

The evening finds them in the dining room once again, textbooks and binders spread across the surface. It would be easier to study in a space with less distractions, but there’s no space in their room for a desk. Three teenage girls and all their clothes were not meant to coexist in such a small space. Well, Adora doesn’t have a lot of clothes, but Lonnie and Catra care much more about style than she does. She’d be happy to wear the exact same thing every day, if that wasn’t considered freakish.

Zeroing in on the sentence in front of her, Adora scans it for errors. Ugh, Catra’s way better at this stuff. She’ll always help Adora if she asks for it, but Adora hates asking for help, feeling like a burden. Unfortunately, it’s been kind of hard to ignore all the people who have treated her like one for much of her life. She’ll show them, though. She’ll get into a good school, and she’ll get a degree, maybe she’ll even make it to the pros, and everyone ever who said she’d never graduate or be able to hold down a job will see how wrong they were.

_Focus, Adora._

Squinting harder at the sentence, she wills her brain to ignore all the distractions. The fridge buzzing, the clock in the living room ticking, Catra’s pencil tapping against the table in thought, her belly rumbling despite eating just an hour ago, the itch in her jiggling calf as she bounces her heel at a frantic pace-

Adora violently pushes her binder away with a huff of frustration. Unfortunately said binder bumps into her textbook, which jostles Catra’s glass of water. Hand shooting out with catlike reflexes, Catra steadies it just before the whole thing spills all over her notes.

“Hey, _watch it!_ ” squawks Catra, shooting her an accusing glare as she uses her sleeve to mop up what little sloshed out.

The admonition makes the blood drain from Adora’s head. Still, some of it manages to pool in her cheeks. “Sorry, sorry. I just…” Her fists clench and unclench uselessly and she slams them hard against the table, staring down at them in shame. “I can’t _fucking_ focus.”

Tears form in her eyes and she blinks them away, breathing heavily. She only gets it under control when Catra lays a warm palm over each of her fists, squeezing them with a calming pressure. Pushing out a hard exhale, she dares to look up and finds Catra watching her with a face not of frustration, but of understanding. Adora really doesn’t deserve her.

Chuckling lightly, Catra tells her, “Okay, dude, you need to take a break before that vein in your forehead pops.”

“Take a break from what?” scoffs Adora, tearing her hands away from the comfort she doesn’t deserve. “I’ve done fuck all since we sat down.” Scowling down at her work, or lack thereof, she mutters, “Isn’t autism supposed to make me smart?”

The second the words leave her lips, she regrets them. She doesn’t like talking about this. Very few people know about her first diagnosis, as her second one of ADHD was enough to get her accommodations in school. It’s also much less likely to make people stare in horror and run away or think twice about recruiting her on a scholarship. Or adopting her, in the past. Why else would a pretty young blonde girl end up in a long-term foster home instead of getting adopted by some middle-class gay or infertile couple or whatever? Adora knows the statistics should have favored her, as fucked up as that is, and she remembers interested couples at meet and greet times at the orphanage. Those couples always disappeared after looking at her papers, though. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why.

Okay, it might have also had something to do with how Adora’s mom was an addict who lost custody of her when she was only a few weeks old. No one wants a kid who could turn out to be brain damaged. And right now, she’s feeling pretty brain damaged.

“Being smart isn’t the same as getting good grades, you know that, right?” says Catra. She’s leaning back in her chair now, an eyebrow cocked high on her forehead. “Entrapta’s barely pulling a C in English. If something doesn’t interest her she has a hell of a time sitting down to do it. She’s all or nothing with her focus.”

Entrapta, a C? Sounds fake, but okay. “She’s a sports reporter.”

“She writes about stats. Math stuff. That’s her thing.” Tapping her pencil against the table again, Catra studies Adora through narrowed eyes. Suddenly, she stops. “I figure that’s why you’re so good at making reads in the middle of plays, ‘cause you get so in the zone. It’s not a bad thing. It just makes it hard to be ‘well-rounded,’ as they say.”

Adora’s eyes fall to the table, her shoulders slumping in shame and despair. She’s never going to be normal.

A sharp fingernail digs into her forehead, tipping it back and forcing Adora to look at her grinning roommate. “My point is, you are dumb, but not because your brain’s a little different. You’re dumb because you care too much about what everyone thinks.”

Rolling her eyes, Adora playfully swats Catra’s hand away. “Maybe you just don’t care enough.”

Catra’s lips purse, then part in a very different kind of grin. The kind that sends a shudder down Adora’s spine.

“Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth to those of you on the crazy side of the border, stay safe!


	4. Attacks of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, gang!
> 
> Firstly, the lovely and talented [jem-jarrett](https://jem-jarrett.tumblr.com/) has drawn some art of [Catra in her football gear](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/post/622960271864053760/jem-jarrett-finished-this-art-of-catra-in-hail)! Go check it out! (Pssst, there may be more on the way.) Thanks also to Jem for beta reading this chapter.
> 
> Glossary: a tank bag is a bag that sits on the gas tank of a motorcycle, i.e. in front of the driver, connected to the body by magnets or straps. [Here's](https://www.cyclegear.com/_a/product_images/0152/8521/cortech_super20_low_profile_tank_bag_750x750.jpg) an example.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for references to sex and child abuse. (Barely. Better safe than sorry.)

Catra is sleeping the next morning, minding her own fucking business, when a pillow hits her square in the face. She jolts upright with a highly undignified squeak, but only makes it halfway to sitting before another blow sends her crashing back down. Her eyes flutter into focus and zero in on Adora and Lonnie looming over her, armed with pillows and grins.

Eyes rolling back, Catra grumbles, “Guys, no.”

Two more hits come in quick succession and she covers her head, curling into herself on the mattress. “Stop it!”

“No can do, it’s tradition!” declares Lonnie, sounding way too happy about this.

“Come on, Catra,” whines Adora. Catra’s eyelids crack open on instinct, revealing the girl making a very pathetic (and cute) pouty face.

“Ugh!” huffs Catra, glaring up at her attackers. “Fine.” She uncurls and takes the remaining fourteen strikes without complaint, though she scowls through the entire thing.

When the others stop, losing their breath to a combination of exertion and laughter, she grumbles, “Great, thanks, that was an amazing way to start my adult life.”

Adora flops down and rolls half on top of Catra, grinning down at her wickedly. “Aw, you know you love us.”

Catra’s heart stutters, her breath catching in her chest as she stares helplessly into those sparkling blue eyes. Adora doesn’t know just how right she is. How much Catra misses being this close to her, holding each other night after night. How she spends so many nights fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss her, touch her, give her all her love.

A phone waving in Catra’s face snaps her back to reality. A reality that includes none of that. “You want a good start?” interjects Lonnie, apparently unaware of Catra’s impending heart attack. “Here, check this out.”

Squinting, Catra makes out the familiar thumbnail and title in the YouTube app: ‘The Flip™ - Catrina Diaz FZ High CRAZY reception and touchdown’.

“I’ve seen it, Lon.”

“Not the vid, you idiot. The views.”

Catra’s eyes flick lower and pop wide open. “Oh, holy shit.” The vid is now at 23.7k views, up from just over 6k when she went to bed last night. This shit has officially gone viral.

Lonnie grins down at them. “Pretty good present, huh?”

“Catra, that’s amazing!” exclaims Adora. Lonnie hops down from the bunk and heads for the bathroom, but she stays. Her ecstatic eyes and smile grow softer as she gazes down at Catra, hand resting just below her collarbones. Finally she says, “I’m glad people are finally seeing how talented you are. You deserve it.”

Blood rushes to Catra’s cheeks, her mouth hanging open stupidly as her suddenly useless brain tries to find something to say. Adora’s eyes flick slightly lower on Catra’s face and her stomach drops suddenly, her head spinning.

Is Adora going to kiss her?!?

Catra’s lungs are paralyzed for a solid five seconds before Adora suddenly leans in and plants a big, wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek. It’s gross and slimy and Catra reacts on instinct, recoiling and shoving Adora off of her. The girl lands on her side cackling as Catra swipes furiously at her cheek. “Blegh! Gross, Adora!”

Of course. Of course that’s the only way Adora will ever kiss her.

“What?” chuckles Adora. “You don’t like my kisses?” Then she’s on Catra again, pinning her arms and making loud kissy noises as she leans in.

“Ack! No!” Catra pulls a knee up to her chest, wedging it between them and protecting herself from the slobbery onslaught. “Get out of my bed! I hate you.”

Despite her continued laughter, a shadow crosses Adora’s face as she relents. Then it’s gone and Catra’s left wondering if she imagined it.

Shaking her head affectionately, Adora pats Catra’s cheek and retreats. “Whatever you say, Catra.”

Cheeks still aflame, Catra climbs down from her bunk and pointedly ignores Adora as she changes into her chef’s jacket and pants. She doesn’t particularly want to work on her birthday, but Sunday’s one of her regular days and she needs the money now more than ever. It could be worse, though: she could still be a waitress. She was originally hired as one because that’s all that was available, and possibly also because she’s a ‘pretty’ girl and they make better tips to pool among the staff. (Catra doesn’t really like the word ‘pretty’ being applied to her, but how do you explain that without getting into awkward and personal conversations about gender and sexuality?)

Being a waiter really is a shit job. Some people love it, love all the social interaction and making people smile, but that’s never been Catra. She _can_ do it, in fact she’s known for being very charming when she wants to be, but it drains her like crazy. After much pleading, several complaints about her being rude (which were actually about her being efficient, thank you very much), and a couple of near breakdowns after dealing with harsh and demanding customers, Catra’s boss relented and let her work back of house. She’s been a prep cook and occasionally a dishwasher for over a year now, and it suits her. In BOH you don’t have to talk to customers or pretend to care about them, you just do your job and go home.

Not that home is necessarily any better, in Catra’s case.

She’s just sat down with a bowl of oatmeal when Ms. Weaver decides to make an appearance. Catra stops with her spoon at her lips, the sticky substance clogging her throat and exacerbating the sudden ache within it. As her wary eyes follow Ms. Weaver into the room, the woman smiles neutrally. “Happy birthday, Catra.”

Catra’s eyes narrow further. Is Weaver in one of her good moods, or is this a trick? No, wait.

“I don’t have rent yet, I’ll stop by the bank later,” she says quickly.

Ms. Weaver waves this away as though that was not her intention. Maybe it wasn’t, but it’s hard for Catra to trust that anything this woman says isn’t cloaked in layers of loathing and manipulation. “That’s fine, just get it to me by the end of the day.”

Just as Catra turns her attention back to her oatmeal, a cold hand cups her shoulder, sending ice through her veins and making her whole body tense. The ensuing squeeze is surprisingly gentle. Not possessive or threatening like it usually is. It’s almost affectionate. Almost.

When Ms. Weaver lifts her hand to brush some hair back behind Catra’s ear, fingers grazing her cheek on the way by, she can’t fight the impulse to look up. The nostalgic expression on the woman’s face, bordering on tender, makes Catra’s throat ache once again.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Weaver’s thumb brushes Catra’s cheek so faintly she’s tempted to lean into the touch, if only to see if it’s actually real. Her eyes flutter shut as she sighs in a mix of contentment and frustration. She aches for this rare soft touch from her guardian, but after 14 years of this she knows better than to let her guard down.

Stroking her hair with an absent smile, Weaver remarks, “Who knew you’d make it this far?”

Those words hit Catra’s stomach hard, but not as hard as they could have. Instead of full on nausea, it’s just a dull, familiar ache. This is precisely why she can never let her guard down, not in this house. Ms. Weaver is far from opposed to physical blows, but her words were always far more damaging.

Forcing a tight smile, Catra says, “I guess I’m as surprised as anyone.” It’s a lie, but she’s used to lying to diffuse situations with Weaver. Lying about her actions, her intentions, even her thoughts. It’s second nature at this point.

“Well, I’m glad I was able to help you along the way, dear,” says Weaver, giving Catra a parting pat on her shoulder. Then she moves to the kitchen, leaving Catra nursing a bowl of cold oatmeal and a deep pain in her chest.

***

Ms. Weaver doesn’t give her a present. Catra isn’t surprised. She’s technically not Weaver’s foster kid anymore, and any sense of obligation or weak attempts to seem unbiased no longer apply to her. She still gets presents from the other orphans, though. When she gets home that evening she’s given a $40 gift card to Champs from Kyle and Rogelio, then a sketchbook and some of her favorite eyeliner from Lonnie.

Adora waits until they’re alone to give Catra her present. By that point Lonnie’s gone off to meet up with (and probably fuck, lbr) Scorpia before the party, so they won’t be interrupted unless Weaver decides to invade their space just to keep them on their toes. Lonnie dating someone who doesn’t live at Weaver’s has been kind of nice, in that way - there’s more time now for just the two of them.

Sitting Catra down on the edge of her bed, Adora digs a sizable gift bag out of the closet and places it in Catra’s lap. Her grin is huge and excited, and Catra knows whatever the present is, she’s gonna love it. Not because it’s great, but because it’s from Adora.

It turns out to be great, anyway: a magnetic tank bag for Melog. Catra’s eyes go wide and jump over to Adora, who’s scratching behind her ear with a slight blush on her cheeks. “You always say it’s annoying to have to dig your wallet and phone out of your backpack when you stop for gas. Figured it might help.”

It’s funny, Catra has in fact been lusting after tank bags for months. The mini trunk on Melog’s tail only holds so much and she usually keeps her extra helmet in there anyway. But for the last six months she’s been putting all her extra money aside to cover her upcoming living expenses, so she could never justify buying one when she doesn’t strictly need it. She’s never mentioned it to Adora and Adora knows diddly squat about motorcycles, so she must have done some research. It’s surprising, not because Adora is incapable of being thoughtful, but because Catra always thought she had a problem with Melog.

“Thanks.” Unconsciously cradling the gift bag to her chest, Catra stammers, ”I- that’s… thanks.”

God, why can’t she speak? This is so humiliating. Good thing they’re alone, Lonnie would never let her hear the end of this.

“Do you like it?” Adora asks quickly. “It’s okay if you don’t, I can return or exchange it for up to 14 days. I mean, I guess that’s 11 days now, but you know.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Catra answers honestly as she pulls the present out of its bag, examining it closely. It’s pretty small for a tank bag, which is actually good because Catra doesn’t like the idea of feeling crowded in front or having to crane her neck to see the controls. However, it’s solidly made and a good brand. Small or not, it couldn’t have been cheap. “Jeez, how much did this cost?”

Adora scoffs playfully. “It’s rude to ask that about your presents, even I know that.”

“Adora-”

“Honestly, not that much,” Adora assures her, shutting her up with a gentle hand on her knee. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, you deserve something nice for a change.”

Despite every intention not to draw attention to it, Catra’s eyes stray down to the hand on her knee. It rests so comfortably there, like it knows it belongs. The nails are bitten off, the knuckles just a little scraped. So perfectly Adora.

Adora’s hand twitches slightly, fingertips tracing the curve of Catra’s knee before she slides it back to rest in her own lap. Pulling at her own fingers now, she asks too casually, “You excited for the party?”

“Yeah,” Catra says automatically. Shaking some sense back into her head, she elaborates, “I mean, as long as Entrapta doesn’t invite a bunch of randos and turn it into a rager.”

“I told her not to,” says Adora, “that you’d wanna keep it small. Something chill.”

“Entrapta, chill?” Catra scoffs. “Besides, what makes you think she listened? Being told not to do something has never stopped her before.”

Adora grins proudly. “I told her a more intimate social experiment would allow her to better observe each participant and their interactions, allowing for a wider data set and ultimately more accurate results.”

Mouth hanging open slightly, Catra stares in amazement. That’s genius. Pure fucking genius.

“God, I love you,” she breathes.

Oh, _fuck_.

Shit-eating does not even begin to describe Adora’s grin right now. Head tipping back with laughter, she throws her arms around Catra and pulls her in tight. Nuzzling hard into Catra’s neck for a moment, just about giving her another heart attack in the process, she draws back and plants another wet smooch right on her cheek. “Told ya!”

“Ughhhh.” Catra drops her face into her hands. She’s never gonna live this down.

“See,” Adora giggles in her ear, “I knew you could never hate me.”

Catra scoffs but doesn’t push Adora away. Her hands unconsciously hook onto the arms looped around her neck as Adora melts into her, forehead coming to rest on her shoulder. Catra’s eyes slip shut to the rhythmic puffs of warm breath against her arm.

“Don’t push your luck, Grayson.”

***

So yeah, Entrapta basically lives in a mansion.

It’s no wonder she used to go to the rich kid school, Dryl Heights is the richest part of town. You can see all the city lights from the massive porch on the third level at the back of the house. Technically Entrapta lives with her aunt and uncle, but they’re away most of the time, so she mostly has the run of the place. Between that and her love of social experiments, she hosts a lot of parties. Most infamously, every year she hosts a haunted house Halloween party and sets up a maze filled with all kinds of booby traps and jump scares. The party is great, if you can make it through the maze without pissing yourself.

Thankfully, Entrapta seems to have listened to Adora. There’s only a small cluster of vehicles in the driveway and along the neighboring curbs when Catra pulls up on Melog. Swift Wind is the first car in the driveway other than Emily, unsurprisingly, and there’s a few others Catra recognizes. Mostly belonging to football people. Unfortunately there’s no sign of the scorpion mobile (as Scorpia calls it). Catra was actually kind of hoping to arrive after Scorpia, be the one waltzing in confidently, not the one getting caught off guard.

Maybe she’s overthinking this. She and Scorpia interact on the field all the time. They get along as teammates just fine. But it’s been months since they spent time together outside of football, and the last time they did was kind of a disaster. Even thinking about it makes Catra feel sick.

Sighing out her nerves, Catra pulls out her phone to investigate the incessant pinging on her drive over. It’s mostly a bunch of useless notifications, but there’s a few texts from Adora and Entrapta mixed in.

**Adora (7:21 PM):** Where u at? Entrapta got a piñata! 

**Adora (7:21 PM):** *excited emojis* 

**Adora (7:34 PM):** Come onnnnn I wanna hit thingsss 

Catra doesn’t even blink. This is exactly the kind of chaos Entrapta encourages at her parties.

**Entrapta (7:26 PM):** Are you coming to the social experiment? I’m waiting for you before we start the festivities. 

**Entrapta (7:42 PM):** Please hurry, Adora’s eaten half the snacks already. 

Catra snorts. Of course she has. Not only does Adora have a voracious appetite, she’s a stress eater. Really, it’s a stim (Catra knows her well enough to have figured that out), and parties are a stressful environment for Adora. She does much better when Catra’s with her - really, they both do better. Both enjoy parties but find them exhausting, though perhaps for different reasons, and both hate being left alone at them. If Adora would let Catra drive Swift Wind they could have gone together but noooo Catra’s not trustworthy or whatever. Adora really has no one but herself to blame for that one.

Still, the thought of Adora in distress makes Catra’s chest tighten with an instinctive urge to protect her, to soothe her nerves. Unfortunately Catra’s not sure how comforting she can be at the moment because right now Adora is the source of a lot of her nerves as well. Between the ‘I love you’ fiasco and all the kissing, it’s been a weird fucking day. Adora is always affectionate, but Catra couldn’t help feeling like she was testing her, somehow. And that she failed.

Her phone pings with a new text.

**Adora (7:46 PM):** Catraaaaaaa 

Grounding herself with a deep breath, Catra dismounts and pockets her phone.

Right. Here goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for the social experiment! It's gonna be faaaaaascinating!


	5. Symbiosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided to cut the social experiment in half so I don’t end up rushing the Catra part. That chapter will be shorter and should be up fairly soon, depending on how much work I’m doing on other projects. Also, I did get another mild concussion recently so my capacity is limited right now. In the meantime, enjoy Adora being a useless, pining lesbian nightmare!
> 
> For any fellow Canadians out there, the “Smarties” I refer to are what we call Rockets. And as you probably know, soda = pop. 'Murica, y’all.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for references to child abuse. There's also an affectionate and unproblematic use of the d-slur, which is meh to me but I know some people appreciate a warning about that, so.

Entrapta can do chill parties, as it turns out.

There’s about a dozen teenagers sitting around in her basement, talking amongst themselves and stuffing their faces with pizza, soda, and snacks. No alcohol, thankfully. If there was any, Adora would feel bad because as a captain she’s supposed to report that kind of thing. She wouldn’t, obviously, but she’d be plagued with guilt about it. Also, dry parties are nice because people don’t try to get her to experiment with potentially addictive substances. Given her genetics that is just _not_ something she’s willing to risk.

Adora’s seated in a large, comfy armchair in a corner, watching other partygoers interact while going to town on a cereal bowl full of Munchies. Entrapta gave her the bowl five minutes ago as part of a “rationing protocol” when she banned her from the snacks table. Adora’s trying to make the bowl last, but there’s nothing to do but eat. Like sure, she _could_ go join any of the several clusters of football players around the room, but what if she accidentally intrudes and doesn’t realize it? She’s terrible at picking up cues that people want her to leave, that’s part of why she does so much better with Catra around. Catra’s got her oddities too but her social awareness is way better, and she’s saved Adora from more than one embarrassing situation. Meanwhile, Adora’s company helps soothe her introverted roommate’s social anxiety and better manage her energy stores. It’s symbiotic. Or at least, it’s supposed to be.

Sure, Catra said she wanted to take a rip around the city before going to the party. She does that pretty often, it helps her clear her head. But Adora’s been here almost an hour and she’s still nowhere to be seen. Forty-five minutes late is fine for a rager, but for a small party being thrown in your honor? That’s just rude.

Honestly, Adora’s focusing on her irritation mostly because it distracts her from the many anxious thoughts that want to start spiraling on her. Catra hasn’t responded to any texts, and Adora hopes that’s just because she’s driving, but what if she’s gotten into an accident? Or what if she’s decided she never wants to see Adora’s face again after she kept slobbering all over her cheeks? God, that was gross. She’s such an idiot, she can’t flirt to save her life-

Oh great, there goes the spiral.

“There she is!” calls one of their teammates, pointing at the bottom of the stairs. Adora whips her head around and finds Catra smirking in the open doorway, one hand resting on her hip. Her helmet is off and she’s swapped her riding boots for chucks but she’s still wearing her leather jacket and it is… a look.

“Hey hey, it’s the birthday girl!” shouts someone else, prompting a round of hoots and cheers.

“That’s me,” Catra winks, “whaddup, losers?”

A few laughs and half-assed insults fly across the room, but it dies down quickly. Looking satisfied at the reception, Catra scans the room and stops when her eyes lock onto Adora. And that look in her eyes, predatory and mischievous, makes Adora swallow hard. She can’t pull her eyes away as Catra saunters up to her, but she somehow manages to keep them off her swaggering hips. Mostly.

Stopping beside the chair, Catra flashes a toothy grin and purrs, “Hey, Adora.” Then she unceremoniously hops over the armrest and right into her lap. Adora jumps with a startled ‘oof,’ but Catra’s weight pins her against the seat. Any attempts at actual words are useless because Adora’s brain is suddenly stuck in a new spiral of ‘wow what a dick’ and ‘ _holy shit_ ass, ass ass ass.’ 

Blissfully ignorant of Adora’s distress, Catra perks up at the sight of the bowl she somehow managed not to kick off the armrest. “Ooo, Munchies!”

As she reaches into the bowl, Adora manages to splutter, “Catra, do you have to sit _right there_?”

“Whaaat?” she asks innocently. “I’m not doing anything.” Casually tossing a Cheeto in the air, she leans back and catches it in her mouth, arm looping around Adora’s shoulders to hold herself steady. “Besides,” she smirks, pulling herself back in, “you’re comfy.”

As the wheels turn in Adora's head, her eyes narrow slightly. “Are you drunk?”

Catra balks. “Uh, I hope not, considering I drove here,” she snarks. “How irresponsible do you think I am?” 

“That’s not what I…” The irritation in Catra’s expression makes Adora trail off. She can feel herself digging a bigger hole with every word. Blinking away, she mutters, “Never mind.”

Before Catra can respond, Entrapta pops up beside them and chirps, “Catra, you’re here! Excellent!” Darting off to the opposite corner, she produces a bat and gestures at the piñata. “Who wants to start?”

There is a surprising amount of interest in juvenile games for a high school party. Or maybe teenagers just have a lot of pent up anger and like to hit things. For Adora, it’s both. Her face lights up and she shifts her weight to stand, but Catra doesn’t move. Poking her in the arm, she asks, “Catra, can you get off?”

Catra cocks an eyebrow, lips curling into a smirk as she leers down at Adora. “Not on command.”

Adora’s cheeks are suddenly on fire. That’s… wow, okay. She’s used to hearing dirty jokes from Catra, but not while the girl’s ass is pressed right against her crotch.

Needing to look away, her eyes flit over to the short line up at the piñata and Entrapta blindfolding Kyle in preparation. She whimpers, wriggling under her captor. If the piñata gets destroyed before she even gets a turn, she thinks she might cry. Maybe that’s childish, but once she gets excited for something, gets her heart set on it, having it taken away is devastating.

Giving Catra a weak shove, she protests, “Come on, get off me, I wanna play!”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” huffs Catra, a stubborn lump in Adora’s lap. Turning her nose up, she demands haughtily, “Respect your elders, young lady.”

Eyes rolling dramatically, Adora groans, “You make that joke every year.”

“And every year it’s funny.”

Well this clearly isn’t working. Changing tactics on the fly, something Adora is very adept at as a quarterback, she tips her head and teases, “Is this revenge for earlier? You know, when I made fun of you for saying-”

“Don’t you dare!” snaps Catra, her pompous expression suddenly hard. It does nothing to hide the panic in her eyes.

Unable to suppress a chuckle at her tiny victory, Adora raises an eyebrow and nods upward. Catra complies with a scowl, sliding off her lap. But just as Adora’s getting up, her eyes flick to the piñata and she’s there in a flash, snatching the bat away from Kyle.

“I’m the birthday girl, I get to go first,” she says, flashing a smirk at Adora at the back of the line before turning back to him. “Jeez, Kyle. What’s wrong with you?”

Pushing the blindfold up his forehead, Kyle raises his hands innocently. “You weren’t in-”

“Shut up, Kyle.” Plucking the blindfold from his head, Catra pushes it down over her own eyes. “Gimme that stupid thing,” she orders, reaching out blindly.

Kyle hands over the bat and Entrapta instructs Catra to take three swings. The first one whiffs completely, the second makes a dent in the shoulder, and the third takes off the head. A few dozen little candies spill onto the floor and the teens nearby scramble to scoop them up. Catra pulls off the blindfold with a cocky little smirk and tosses it to Kyle. “There, I softened him up for you.”

Fifteen swings and eleven actual strikes later, the piñata is looking a little worse for wear but mostly intact, thank god. Sizing the thing up, Adora closes her eyes as Entrapta adjusts the knot behind her head. She takes a deep breath, stretches out her bat and visualizes her success. Then she hacks the piñata to pieces, spilling its guts all over the basement floor. The monsoon of candy clattering all over the hardwood makes her grin even before she removes the blindfold to admire her own handiwork.

Catra stands from scooping up a double handful of candy, an eyebrow raised high on her forehead. Adora can’t tell if she’s annoyed or impressed, but she doesn’t turn down the offered sweets. She unwraps a roll of Smarties and dumps the whole thing in her mouth, grinning when she hears Catra chuckle beside her. Pocketing most of the stash, Catra pops a gumball in her mouth and grins around it.

“You should’ve been a softball gay,” she remarks.

Shrugging to cover her blush, Adora retorts, “If I was, I wouldn’t have been a football gay.”

“Fair,” says Catra, nodding slowly, eyes focused somewhere on the wall.

Nudging her ribs, Adora prods, “Whatcha thinking about?”

A small smile flickers across Catra’s lips. “I’m glad I changed sports. Even if Weaver’s never stopped giving me shit.”

“Yeah, me too.” Adora gives her shoulder a tiny squeeze as she returns the smile. Catra’s eyes are just so overwhelming, like more than usual somehow, and she can only stand a few seconds before she has to avert her eyes. They land on the mess on the floor and she squats down to claim some of the booty for herself. Sadly, only the confectionary variety.

“Okay, everyone,” Entrapta calls out, “this next game’s mandatory, so finish your plates real quick!”

Snorting under her breath, Catra mutters down at Adora, “God, she can be even bossier than you.”

Adora chuckles uneasily as she stands, stuffing fistfuls of candy into her pockets. Admittedly she’s not the best at reading tone, but that sounded just a little salty to her.

“Next up is sardines!” continues Entrapta. “If you don’t know how to play, it’s like reverse hide and seek. The person who’s ‘it’ hides and once you find them you hide with them, packing in tight like sardines. The last person to find the group is ‘it’ the next round. Any questions?”

“Sounds gay, I’m in,” deadpans Catra. She shrugs off her jacket, revealing a burgundy henley that clings to her curves and arms (that Adora is absolutely not salivating over _Jesus Christ_ ), and tosses it over the arm of a nearby couch. Would it absolutely kill Catra to do up those buttons? Her collarbones are nearly as chiseled as her jaw. It’s not like Adora hasn’t noticed that after years of living with her, but something about Catra’s energy tonight is just amplifying everything in a way that Adora couldn’t hope to explain.

“Approval from the guest of honor, perfect! Okay, now who-” Entrapta cuts herself off, perking up as her eyes land on the doorway. “Oh, hey guys!”

Adora feels Catra stiffen beside her and turns her head. Scorpia shuffles into the room, waving sheepishly with the arm that’s not looped around Lonnie’s shoulders. “Hey, Trapta. Sorry we’re late, we just got a little sidetracked.”

“Yes, that mark on your neck certainly suggests so!” remarks Entrapta, bounding over to examine said mark.

“Oh, ha. Th-that, right.” Scorpia rubs at the mark in a failed casual attempt to obscure it. “Anyway, uh…” She scans the room, and her lips turn up into a soft, slightly strained smile at the sight of Catra. “Oh, hey Wildcat.”

Catra gives a jerky nod in greeting at Adora’s side, swallowing hard before managing a raspy, “Hey, Scorp.”

Peering at her bumbling best friend, Entrapta observes, “You seem surprised at Catra’s presence. You did know she would be here, right? It’s her birthday party.”

Scorpia’s eyes flick back, meeting Catra’s gaze. The muted sadness in Catra’s eyes breaks Adora’s heart in more ways than one. But that’s not important right now, she needs to save her friends.

Stepping in, Adora reminds their oblivious host, “Hey, Entrapta, weren’t you about to run an experiment?”

“Exper- oh, right!” Clapping her hands together, Entrapta announces, “Okay, so sardines. Who wants to hide?”

“I’ll hide,” Catra offers quietly.

“Fascinating,” murmurs Entrapta, squinting curiously. Off Catra’s glare, she backtracks, “I mean, of course! You’re the birthday girl.” She flourishes all around them, indicating the house. “All four floors are fair game, except for the lab and any other rooms marked off-limits. You have two minutes to hide.”

The next two minutes are possibly the longest of Adora’s life, more nerve-wracking even than a two-minute warning in a tight football game. What _the fuck_ just happened?

It’s like Scorpia appeared and sucked all the air out of the room, or at least out of Catra’s lungs. The only other person who’s ever been able to do that to her is Ms. Weaver. But Scorpia would never hurt Catra, never hurt anyone, not in that way. The only logical conclusion is that Scorpia hurt her in another way, that Catra’s still hung up on her. Brokenhearted, even. Adora could have sworn for a second that Catra was about to cry when Scorpia walked in with Lonnie. Adora didn’t want to believe that was how Catra felt about her, but it’s looking more and more likely.

But… wasn’t Catra flirting with Adora earlier, with the whole chair thing? It kinda seemed like it, though Adora is infamously terrible at reading these things. Maybe she was just trying to annoy her? It can be so hard to tell the difference with her. Growing up in the same house, annoying each other has always been a part of how they communicate and show affection as well as genuine irritation. And even with other people, being annoying seems to be a way Catra shows affection, a tactic she uses to get attention.

A new thought makes Adora go pale. What if Catra was flirting with her, but only to distract herself from her heartbreak over Scorpia? It makes sense, people apparently do that all the time. But would Catra do something like that? To Adora, no less?

By the time the two minutes is up, Adora’s legs are as shaky as her thoughts. She has to grab another slice of pizza on the way out to wolf down as she hunts. It could be a long search, after all. This house is fucking massive, with plenty of nooks and crannies to scour. There’s a big open entertainment area and balcony on the top floor and half of the basement is taken up by Entrapta’s lab, but there’s tons of rooms to search on the first and second floors.

As it turns out, Adora does find Catra first. She knows her better than anyone, after all, knows how she gravitates towards small, dark, enclosed spaces for a sense of comfort. Also, there’s the whole thing about how she used to hide in the closet at home when she was scared, or upset after a disciplinary encounter with Ms. Weaver. It was about the only place she could get privacy in that house, sharing a room with two other girls.

Adora remembers hearing her muted whimpers from behind the slatted doors, knocking gently and being yelled at to go away. She remembers sitting down leaning against said doors, guarding the space while Catra collected herself. In the times when she was scared, for good reason, Adora would eventually be torn away by threat or force, Catra would be ripped from her hiding spot, and the screaming would begin. The screaming and…

Adora prefers not to think about those times. She prefers the memories of after the danger had passed when she could just sit there, a comfort to her friend. On rare occasions Catra would not even allow her that, would shout at her until she left the room. Others, she didn’t tell Adora to go away at all, and Adora would crawl into the darkness and find her curled up on the floor, her face stained with tears. Adora would sit silently and take her head into her lap, gently scratching her scalp and stroking her hair, rubbing her back if it was safe to do so. It always calmed Catra down, and it was soothing for Adora too. It helped keep her hands busy and her mind off of what she’d just heard.

Obviously the wave of nostalgia she’s hit by when she finds Catra once again hiding in a closet is not an entirely pleasant one. But she can’t help a small smile either, both at her victory and at seeing Catra’s face. It’s a natural side effect.

“Hey look, I won,” Adora brags when she spies Catra flattened against the wall on one side.

Catra shakes her head slightly, amused. “Of course you did.”

Pulling the door shut behind her, Adora steps through the thick curtain of garments. Catra actually picked a pretty good spot - there’s a bunch of coats on that side of the closet that obscure her legs, and with how full the closet is it would be easy for someone peeking past the clothes to miss her.

The positioning may be different, the two of them on more or less equal footing and nursing no physical wounds, but Adora can’t shake the sense of awkwardness, her fear that their previous closet rendezvous are all Catra can think about too. And the idea of that is unbearable, especially if Catra’s already upset about Scorpia, so Adora takes it upon herself to break the tension.

“Look at us, back in the closet together,” she cracks, poking Catra in the ribs. “Who woulda thought, after all those Pride parades?”

Catra brushes her hand away with a scoff. “Speak for yourself, I was never in any closet.” Despite her words of protest, she’s smiling a little. Eyeing Adora up and down, she adds, “And you were always like the ultimate sports dyke, so it’s not like people didn’t know about you either. Even if you didn’t figure it out until we met everyone’s favorite MILF.”

Oh, that definitely went a direction Adora didn’t expect. Brow furrowing, she purses her lips as she weighs the cost of the truth, how much she can divulge before it becomes incriminating. Her voice is quiet and eyes are down when she says, “No, I knew.”

It takes a second for Catra to respond. “What, really?”

Slowly lifting her head, Adora raises her eyebrows as she meets Catra’s confused gaze. “Just because I didn’t talk about it doesn’t mean I didn’t know.”

A tiny scoff escapes Catra’s throat, eyes flicking away as her arms fold over her chest. “Never thought you were that good at keeping secrets,” she remarks. Finally she looks back at Adora, gesturing expectantly. “Well? How long have you known?”

Adora frowns in thought. Not because she doesn’t know the answer, but because there’s no casual way to tell your best friend ‘I’ve wanted to marry you since I knew what marriage was.’

“Always,” is what she says instead. “I mean I didn’t know what it was, but I was always drawn to other girls, always wanted their attention, wanted to be close to them.”

Nodding pensively, Catra stares into the darkness. After a moment she murmurs, “Yeah, me too.”

If only she was saying that to what Adora was thinking, not what she said. Because there’s no way Catra could know, right? She’s smart, but she’s not a mindreader. If she was she probably would have kicked Adora out of her room years ago for being a pervert.

The crack of the bedroom door opening jolts Adora from her thoughts, making her flinch.

“Shit,” she mutters, pushing forward and flattening against the wall, against Catra. In her haste she bounces off the wall slightly and starts to tip backwards, but a pair of quick hands steadies her hips, pulling her closer. Adora’s eyes flick down to find Catra’s already on her, widened in a clear order to be quiet. Adora can barely bring herself to nod apologetically, dazed by the sight. And their proximity. And the scent of sour candies on Catra’s breath.

Suppressing the urge to groan, Adora adjusts her positioning and tips her head down so her forehead is resting against the wall, removing that temptation before it can take hold. She breathes deeply, as quietly as possible, praying to god that Catra will interpret her pounding heartbeat as excitement purely from the game. She can feel Catra’s heart hammering against her rib cage too, can hear it echoing in Catra’s jugular mere inches from her ear. Catra’s hands are sweaty where they’ve wound into Adora’s shirt, trembling slightly in anticipation of being caught. Catra may act like she doesn’t care that much about winning and losing, but Adora knows better than anyone just how competitive she is, how wound up she gets.

The closet door opens and they both tense, not daring to breathe. The metal hanger hooks screech along the rod as the seeker parts the sea of garments, the sound making Adora wince. The light suddenly flooding their dark space doesn’t help in that regard either. She squeezes her eyes shut with the tiniest little whimper and one of Catra’s hands taps gently against her waist, acknowledging her discomfort and offering solace.

In seconds it’s over and the person is closing the closet door, then the bedroom door on their way out. Adora expels as heavy a breath as she dares and whispers, “Phew, that was close.” She starts to pull away and lower her arms from where she’s braced them against the wall, bracketing Catra’s head. But she doesn’t get very far.

Catra’s arms are locked in place, fingers still clinging to Adora’s shirt. Resting her elbows on Catra’s shoulders, Adora pulls her head back to get a good look at her face. She arches her eyebrows questioningly but Catra’s eyes are fixed firmly on the opposite wall of the closet, refusing to meet hers. Frowning in concern, Adora brushes a thumb over the baby hairs on the back of Catra’s neck. “Catra?”

Still Catra doesn’t respond. Not with words anyway. It’s just a tiny movement, but when her shoulders curl forward into Adora just a little bit, Adora clues in. Sometimes you just need a hug when you’re sad. She gets it.

Slowly leaning back in, Adora wraps her arms around Catra’s shoulders. She sighs in relief when she feels Catra respond, relaxing in her grip and slumping slightly to rest her chin on her shoulder. Squeezing a little tighter, she nuzzles into the curve of Catra’s shoulder in response, breathing her in. Catra smells… like Catra. It’s a scent Adora could never quite put a finger on, something uniquely _her_ , but it’s the most comforting smell she knows. It smells like safety, and tenderness, and just a little bit of mischief.

Adora could fall asleep in these arms, in the peace they bring her mind. She has, many times. When they were kids Catra ended up sleeping on her bed more often than not, sprawled half on top of Adora with her head on her chest. Though technically she was usually the one holding Catra, and Catra was often the one seeking comfort, it made Adora feel safer too. It felt a little like Catra was guarding her in the night, and the pressure pinning her to the mattress felt so good. So… secure. They’ve always been better together, perfectly suited to each other’s needs. Adora can't even imagine a life without Catra as her closest companion, and she doesn't want to.

Absentmindedly brushing her fingers through Catra’s hair, Adora’s pulled out of her head by Catra’s low hum next to her ear. The long lost sound makes her lips turn up. She always used to tease Catra about how she purrs like an actual cat. Not quite, but… it’s nice. It’s soothing.

Rubbing her cheek against Catra’s ear in a similarly feline fashion, Adora chuckles, “Yeah, I miss this too.”

A quiet snort is muffled in her shoulder, Catra’s back puffing out against the arm still slung across her shoulders. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Okay,” says Adora. So she holds her close, and doesn’t say another word.

Maybe this is all she’ll ever get from Catra, holding and comforting her after others have hurt her. But it’s enough. It has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time to find out what the hell all the Scorptra drama is about.


	6. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Catra chapter will be shorter, I said. It will be up soon, I said.
> 
> In all seriousness this is a monster chapter both in length and content. There’s a lot of yearning and sexual tension and Catra introspection, so enjoy that. I wasn’t planning on writing a crazy long dance floor scene, but it didn’t make sense to break this up into two chapters so hey, more food for y’all.
> 
> This chapter also contains a lot of information that provides context for or calls back to previous chapters, so if you were thinking of doing a reread now’s a good time. ;)
> 
> Glossary: As I mentioned in chapter 3, “the pocket” refers to the protective pocket formed around the quarterback by their linemen.
> 
> Music: There’s a lot of songs referenced in this chapter, so if you want the list to listen along or simply for reference that’s in the end notes. They definitely help illustrate the energy in the scenes.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for references to child abuse and sexual themes. (Normally I wouldn’t warn about sexual thoughts but this fic is T-rated, so just be aware it’s a high T rating. Catra is pretty horny on main in this chapter, though not necessarily much more than Adora last chapter.)

This moment could go on forever and Catra would be perfectly content. Sure, if it never ended then she’d never get the chance to show Ms. Weaver she’s wrong about her or fully demonstrate her worth, but in this moment she feels irreplaceable. If they stayed this way forever she’d never win a state championship, but she’s already holding her most coveted prize in her arms. Sure, she’d never get that intense, elusive high of victory, but this high is enough.

It’s also not enough.

Adora’s breath on Catra’s neck makes her hands tremble again. She wants Adora, in every sense of the word. She wants her so badly she could scream. She wants to be under her clothes, under her skin, burrowing in so deep that she can just be _known_ , and know Adora in a way no one else does. Perhaps she does already, but she needs to go deeper. It’s taking so much restraint not to turn and pin Adora to the wall, press even harder against her just to get impossibly closer.

She really hopes Adora thinks she’s freaking out over Weaver flashbacks or something, because those tremors are spreading up her arms, her knees buckling and teeth chattering. This is so wonderful and so overwhelming and yet still not enough and she feels like her yawning hunger is going to eat her alive.

For the record, it’s not just about sex. Catra has people she can go to for that, people she already has gone to and people who have made it clear that she could, if they were so lucky. But it’s not just anyone she craves, it’s Adora. And the way she craves Adora, it’s not just her body. Obviously that’s part of it, and god she needs that physical closeness, but above all what she desires is the intimacy, the deep connection it would forge between the two of them. Or not really forge so much as solidify. Sometimes she gets that feeling of singularity, of being the only thing that matters in Adora’s world. Like right now, for instance. Others, she feels like the dirt on Adora’s shoe.

Adora’s thumb catches on the collar of Catra’s henley, peeling it away from the skin on the back of her neck, and Catra sighs. She almost mindlessly nuzzles into Adora’s shoulder, cherishing the contact and her warmth, committing this moment to memory. Because it can’t last. It never does.

Store up the highs to get through the lows, that’s how Catra has been operating for years.

“You’re shaking,” murmurs Adora, fingers ghosting across her shoulder blade.

“I’m okay,” Catra mumbles, squeezing her arms a little tighter to reassure Adora and tuck her face farther out of view.

Of course fucking Adora has to keep pushing, dig in when Catra’s feeling vulnerable. She’s always been that way. Catra’s never known whether to love it or hate it.

Adora tilts Catra’s chin up and, when Catra makes halting eye contact, her face falls. “Did I do something?”

“No,” says Catra, quick to reassure her. “It’s not you.” Well, it is, but not the way Adora thinks. “I’m a little overwhelmed, is all.”

This much, Adora can definitely understand. Nodding with a relieved smile, she points out, “At least now you get a break from the crowd.”

If only that was the problem. Still, the brief solitude has been nice. Snorting a little, Catra points out, “Yeah, but for how long?”

As if on cue, the bedroom door opens again, multiple voices and footsteps invading their little sanctuary.

Winking with a knowing grin, Catra whispers, “Should’ve knocked on wood.”

***

Several rounds of sardines later, the party moves back to the basement and Entrapta turns on some kind of throwback party playlist. The large open space becomes something of an impromptu dance floor for those who aren’t playing video games or chilling on the couches. Catra barely has the chance to wolf down a handful of chips before she’s being roped into a Mushroom Cup with Entrapta. The music pulses behind them, a soundtrack to their epic battle as they trade shoulder checks and death threats. Standard MarioKart fare.

They go into the final course tied, but Entrapta prevails after a mishap with a banana peel sends Catra rocketing off the track. Catra almost throws her steering wheel across the room when Entrapta screeches with victory and jumps up onto the couch, but manages to stuff the anger down. Growling, she tosses the controller over her shoulder and safely onto the cushion as she walks away. At least that’s an improvement. She’s working on being a better friend, that’s got to count for something, right?

Grabbing a couple slices of lukewarm pizza, Catra flops down on one of the other couches to watch the antics on the dance floor. It’s not as entertaining as it would be if they were all drunk, but Catra’s glad Entrapta honored that request anyway. If Adora was uncomfortable, Catra wouldn’t be able to enjoy her own party. Besides, next weekend will more than make up for it.

Adora’s definitely enjoying herself right now, jumping around and singing along to Womanizer. She’s such a dork. Catra loves her so much.

Catra’s just finished her pizza when a far too enthusiastic Adora bounds over and plops down beside her, grinning like an idiot. Brushing stray strands from her ponytail off her sweaty forehead, she knocks her knee against Catra’s. “Having fun?”

Scowling at the obnoxious positivity, Catra scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You know I hate parties.”

“You don’t hate parties, you hate being left alone at parties,” Adora corrects her. “Unless you ask me to.” Poking her in the arm, she tips her head with a sympathetic smile. “And you hate losing.”

“Here to rub it in?” Catra demands tersely.

Shaking her head, Adora urges her, “Dance with me. It’ll cheer you up.” When Catra doesn’t move, she leans in with a teasing smirk. “Come on, we’ll put on a show. I know you _love_ parties where you’re the center of attention.”

Their sudden proximity makes Catra’s cheeks flare up, the skin prickling with oncoming heat. Being called out like that doesn’t exactly make her any less flustered, either. She manages to lean back a little, crossing her arms with a huff, but can’t break away from Adora’s magnetic gaze. “I refuse to be perceived like this. It’s illegal.”

“Tough shit,” Adora grabs her hand and stands up, tugging on Catra’s arm, “you’re dancing with me.”

“Entrapta?” Catra hollers over to the host as she resists, rooting herself into the couch. “Entrapta, I’m being bullied!”

Raising an eyebrow, Entrapta deadpans, “You red shelled me on the last lap.”

“That’s not bullying, that’s good luck,” Catra protests, digging in her heels as Adora grabs on with both hands and pulls her halfway to standing. Adora’s hands on her isn’t distracting her and making her breathless, not at all.

“That banana peel was karma,” banters Entrapta.

“You planted it, you bitch,” Catra tosses right back.

Waving smugly, Entrapta cooes, “Bye, Catra.” 

Before Catra has a chance to catch on or brace herself, Adora heaves once again, yanking her off balance. They stumble onto the dance floor together, Adora catching Catra by the hips as she plows into her.

“Sorry!” laughs Adora, adjusting her grip on Catra’s waist.

Knocking her hands away with a scowl, Catra grumbles, “If you were really sorry, you’d let me go.”

Adora’s grin softens slightly from obnoxious to devious, hands now latching onto Catra’s and towing her backwards towards the other dancers. “Then I guess I’m not really sorry.”

Catra only has so much willpower to resist Adora’s charms. She gives in with an eye roll and goes willingly. It has nothing to do with how she doesn’t want to let go of Adora’s hands, shut up.

Their hands stay linked for a little bit as they take turns twirling and spinning each other, laughter turning from nervous to genuine to diabolical as they pull each other into more and more ridiculous positions. Hearing the last few chords of the song coming up, Catra takes control and spins Adora out and then back, dropping her into a dip right at the final beat.

The look on Adora’s face is so worth letting go of her hands. Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are practically bulging out of her skull, burning into Catra’s with a paralyzing intensity. Catra’s fingertips press gently into her back, exploring the terrain even as they hold her securely. The tense muscles below her shoulder blades, the soft curve in the small of her back, the warmth of her skin bleeding through her shirt.

Seconds seem to drag on for hours, neither of them blinking. What finally pulls Catra out of her trance is the feeling of something nestled between her thighs, and that’s when she realizes she literally swept Adora off her feet. Or foot, anyway.

As Catra straightens up, setting Adora back on her feet, a set of familiar notes pierces the air and she grins devilishly. Grabbing hands again will just have to wait. The boots with the fur song requires Catra to grind her ass back against her dance partner’s hips. That’s just the choreography.

Maybe she’s overdoing it a little, but that’s what the song requires. That’s what she tells herself, anyway, as she drags a teasing finger down Adora’s chest. Spinning on a dime, she pops on the beat and then sticks her ass out, working her way down Adora’s thighs as the first _‘low, low, low’_ drifts through the speakers.

Adora’s hands rest tentatively on her hips, but she doesn’t drop her ass with Catra or otherwise move it very much. Pathetic.

Popping back up, Catra pokes Adora in the forehead and scolds her, “C’mon, Grayson, you’re dancing like a white girl.”

Adora scoffs. “I am-”

Catra silences her with a finger on her lips. “Shush.” Then she places both hands on Adora’s shoulders and gently pushes, guiding her down to the second _‘low, low, low’_. Her tongue flits out to wet her lips as Adora descends. Not a bad visual in the slightest.

“Better?” Adora asks as she comes back up, her tone a mixture of defiant and playful. But Catra recognizes the look on her face, smug yet unsatisfied, not until she gets approval. But she’s gonna have to earn that praise.

Smirking back at her, Catra teases, “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

She keeps a few inches of distance as they dance through the first verse, daring Adora to close the gap, draw her back in. Adora doesn’t take the bait, but it doesn’t matter, resistance is futile. When the chorus comes back around, this time Catra doesn’t drop her ass, but pop it up as she bends over, twerking up against Adora. Though she’s mostly focused on the way Adora’s fingertips have suddenly dug into her hip bones, she’s also aware of the hoots and whistles of the crowd.

“Damn, Diaz!”

“Work it, girl!”

Grinning at the compliments, Catra spins and pops up all in one move, striking a pose in Adora’s arms. Her eyes have bulged again, mouth moving mutely as she stares helplessly. For a second Catra thinks she’s gonna have a stroke. Unsure whether she’s teasing her or simply taking pity on her, Catra tips her head and cooes into her ear, “What’s wrong? Too gay to function?”

And that activates competitive lesbian jock mode. Eyes narrowing and sparking, Adora turns around and twerks right back at her.

Catra’s hands instinctively land on her hips, eyes following them as she mutters approvingly, “Oh hell yeah.” She bites her lip as it tightens in a smile, barely resisting the temptation to smack that ass. Even though the urge is more playful than pervy and she does it regularly enough on the field anyway, she doesn’t know if Adora would mind in this context.

Besides, she can’t afford to lose her focus. The competition is on.

They battle head on for the rest of the song, circling each other and going down face to face, no more turning their backs. Adora keeps up admirably. She’s certainly less coordinated than Catra, but god love her she tries.

By the time the song ends, Adora’s panting with her hands on her knees and Catra’s smirking smugly. Adora’s in good shape in some ways, but she’s not the one used to running at top speed, spinning and dodging bodies.

(Catra may be a little breathless too, but at least she has an excuse.)

_‘All I wanna get is a little bit closer’_

Adora bolts upright and points to the ceiling with a breathless cheer. “Yes! Lesbian classic!”

“Sure you don’t need a break, there?” teases Catra, poking her between the eyes. “I know it’s hard to get a workout in the pocket. I wouldn’t blame you for having no endurance.”

Eyes darkening, Adora retorts, “I’ll show you endurance.” 

Oh, that’s priceless. Adora didn’t even mean to say that, Catra’s sure of it. But before she can open her mouth to tease her, Adora slips her arms around Catra’s waist and pulls her in, stealing the words right off her tongue.

_‘Here comes the rush before we touch, come a little closer’_

Their hips bump together in the middle, their laughter turning nervous again as Catra loops her hands around Adora’s neck. Which is silly, considering they were just twerking all over each other. Whatever, Catra would be lying if she said she totally hated the nerves anyway. Something feels electric between them as they sway along to the music, Adora’s eyes bright with joy and affection.

_‘All you think of lately is getting underneath me’  
‘All I dream of lately is how to get you underneath me’_

Catra’s eyes flick away with an affronted scoff. Tegan & Sara have no right calling her out like this. The mere thought of Adora gazing up at her softly, hair down and strewn across her pillow is enough to make Catra’s heart soar and her stomach clench in arousal. And guilt.

As Catra meets her gaze again, Adora smiles down at her, so hopeful and innocent. Oblivious to Catra’s dark mind. What would she think if she knew what was going through Catra’s head? Catra’s supposed to be her best friend but she can’t even enjoy a bit of closeness without objectifying her. Some friend she is.

She has to look away. Unfortunately, her already guilty eyes land on Lonnie and Scorpia a few feet away, dancing and laughing in each other’s arms. Their eyes are locked, Lonnie’s hand sliding down Scorpia’s cheek, and it’s like no one else in the room exists. No one else in the world. Scorpia looks so happy, like Lonnie’s handed her the sun, moon, and stars. Catra feels like she’s going to throw up.

Lonnie goes up on her tiptoes, pulling Scorpia down into a kiss, and Catra can’t watch this anymore. She tears her eyes away, trying to breathe deeply and calm her racing heart. She doesn’t even register the burning in her eyes until a hand turns her chin and her eyes won’t focus properly in response. Blinking back her tears, she finds Adora’s curious, concerned face looking down on her.

“You okay?”

And it’s too much. Scorpia didn’t deserve her bullshit and Adora sure doesn’t either, and Catra can’t even begin to explain, not when her mind’s racing like this. It feels like her brain is overheating, and she can’t. She can’t.

Shrugging out of Adora’s grip, Catra bolts for the stairs, the lyrics mocking her as she leaves Adora alone on the dance floor.

_‘I want you close, I want you’  
‘I won't treat you like you're typical’_

Only once the front door has slammed behind her and she’s alone in the night air can Catra take a breath. She falls back against a pillar on the porch, sweaty hands grasping at her equally sweaty hair, heart hammering against her ribcage. Slowly her breaths grow steadier and the panic starts to fade, but the nausea only gets worse as her thoughts return to her.

This isn’t what it looks like. It’s not that Catra doesn’t want Scorpia to be happy. She really, really does. But that expression on her face is just a reminder of how Catra had the exact opposite effect in her life. And it reminds Catra of the one time she saw that expression directed at herself. At that party last May, where she made out with Scorpia. Right here, on this very porch.

That was the beginning of the end of their friendship. Catra was sulking out here because some thot was sitting on Adora’s lap like she fucking owned her and Adora either didn’t mind or was doing an uncharacteristically good job of acting like it. Scorpia was being her usual peppy self with no boundaries, squeezing Catra tight and trying to get her to talk about what was bothering her. But Catra didn’t want to talk, she wanted that Adora-shaped hole in her heart to stop hurting, so she shut Scorpia up with her mouth. (For the record, Scorpia’s not nearly as aggressive with her kisses as she is with her hugs. It was nice.)

That encounter just made Scorpia even more… well, Scorpia. She texted Catra all through Sunday and into Monday. They were partners on a big project in History and they had to present it to the class that day, and Scorpia had offered to make the PowerPoint presentation seeing as Catra had written most of the accompanying paper. Catra was dreading having to even look at Scorpia and that elated expression again, the mere thought of breaking such a cinnamon roll’s heart almost unbearable. So yeah, she was stressed out for a lot of reasons. And when they went up to present and Scorpia produced a broken thumb drive from the bottom of her backpack, Catra just about had a meltdown. That was 10% off their project even with the paper completed, even if Scorpia emailed the presentation to the teacher that afternoon. The teacher had no mercy on them, and Catra had none on Scorpia.

She barely held her rage in for the rest of the class, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. When Scorpia found her at lunchtime and tried to apologize again with a kiss on the cheek, Catra let her have it. She doesn’t remember everything she said, but it included some stuff about how Scorpia is useless and always ruins everything and she shouldn’t have expected any better. Then she said never to touch her again and that she’d only kissed Scorpia because she never knows when to shut up. Scorpia took all of this in silently, obviously dismayed, but her heartbroken expression wasn’t enough to stop Catra’s diatribe. When she finally ran out of words, Scorpia for once had very little to say before walking away. Four words, to be exact.

Since then, they’ve barely spoken to each other outside of football and classes. Catra has written so many apology texts but she never sent any of them. She was terrified Scorpia would never want to be her friend again, or worse, that she’d go back to acting like it never happened, give Catra forgiveness she didn’t deserve. Besides, Scorpia’s better off without her. At this point apologizing would just bring more heartache, and Catra doesn’t want to hurt Scorpia any more than she already has.

The sound of the door opening makes Catra jump as the music from downstairs swells in the air. She barely has time to check her eyes for tears before Scorpia walks out the door, freezing her in place. Closing the door behind her, Scorpia looks over to find Catra standing there staring at her like some helpless prey animal. That must be how she looks, anyway, because that’s exactly how Scorpia approaches her, with light steps and a gentle voice. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t wish you a happy birthday yet.”

Catra blinks, unsure how to respond. Her body doesn’t seem to want to move or speak anyway, so she doesn’t. Scorpia stops a little over an arm’s length away and extends her fist for Catra to bump. “Welcome to adulthood.”

What the actual fuck.

Warily reaching out to accept the bump, Catra somehow makes herself speak. “Is it any different?”

Scorpia chuckles. “Not so far.”

To be fair, Scorpia has only a few months of experience to speak from. Technically she should have graduated last year, but she was held back a year in grade school. Entrapta was too, actually: not because she was too dumb, but because she was too smart. Well, more specifically because no one could get her to sit down and do any work because it was too easy and didn’t hold her interest. Catra can relate, honestly, but she had to make herself finish her work or she’d suffer for it. Pain can be an exceptionally good motivator.

Stepping closer, Scorpia lifts her other hand, a Coke and a Sprite grasped in one meaty claw. “Can I join you?”

Catra finds herself torn between surprise that Scorpia wants to talk to her, gratitude and heartbreak that she remembers her drink of choice, and a snarky thought about how at least Scorpia’s asking now, instead of barging into her life like she did last year. Then again, why would she after the way Catra treated her?

“Sure,” she shrugs, taking the offered Sprite.

Smiling tightly, Scorpia pops the tab on her Coke and downs a few mouthfuls, leaning forward against the railing. Catra mirrors her warily, stomach crawling with nerves. Scorpia won’t stay silent for long.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me being here?” Aaaaand there it is. Catra glances over as Scorpia elaborates, “‘Cause like, you kinda seem to be avoiding me, and you don’t look very happy.”

“It’s not you,” Catra says automatically. It’s not entirely a lie.

“You sure about that?” presses Scorpia. “It’s your birthday, Catra, you’re supposed to be happy. I don’t need to be here if it hurts you.” Her mouth twitches sadly, her eyes earnest. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Catra’s throat aches, her stomach tightening like she just got socked in the gut. Which she basically did. She has to take a deep breath and swallow hard so her voice doesn’t betray her, reveal just how close she is to crying. She’s been holding all her regret in for months and it wants to choke her on the way out. Still, she knows she’ll feel better once it’s out. And maybe a bit of honesty would go a long way to mending things between them.

Fiddling with the tab on her can, Catra explains, “You’re not hurting me. It’s just hard for me to be around you because it makes me remember what I did, how I treated you.” Her guilty eyes flit up to Scorpia’s for a second before dropping again. “You’re the one who shouldn’t want to be around me.”

“Now that’s just dumb,” says Scorpia. Catra blinks up, surprised, to find Scorpia standing there with a smile, her arms crossed. “Yeah, I couldn’t be around you for a while. It hurt seeing you, and I needed space. But having the summer apart, and starting things with Lonnie, it made things easier. It gave me perspective.” Taking a half step closer, she lowers her voice a little as she adds, “And look, I know you’re different now. Or you’re trying, anyway. I see you trying to be better about your anger, and saying mean things. I know you learned from your mistakes.”

“You deserved so much better than me,” mutters Catra. Chuckling inwardly, she remarks, “Never thought I’d say Lonnie is a better person than me, but… she’s better for you, anyway.”

A bright red blush lights up Scorpia’s cheeks, and Catra might laugh if the heaviness of this conversation wasn’t suffocating her. Scratching the back of her neck with a sheepish grin, Scorpia admits, “Well I can’t exactly deny that, can I?”

“I’m happy for you. Really,” declares Catra. Summoning all her strength, she takes a deep breath and says, “And look, I… I’m sorry, for how I treated you last year. I was frustrated with Weaver and her bullshit, and with Adora for not understanding, and I lashed out at you instead. You were kind to me and I took that as an invitation to push you around.” Picking at some chipped paint on the railing, she admits, “And with the project, I knew Weaver would come down on me for it, punish me and tell me I was lazy even though I worked so hard on it, and I snapped. But I shouldn’t have said those things to you. You didn’t deserve it, and it wasn’t true.”

When she dares to look Scorpia in the eye, she finds a truly stricken look on the other girl’s face. Her mouth moves wordlessly a couple times before she manages, “I am so sorry she hurt you because of me.”

A flare of panic rises in Catra’s chest, her eyes going wide. Scorpia’s not supposed to know about that. Nobody is. It’s bad enough that the other kids at Weaver’s have witnessed her at her weakest, but they’re all in it together. There’s no shame among comrades. But for anyone else to know how vulnerable she is, how degrading it is, that’s just humiliating. And if Scorpia knows, who else knows? Does everyone know? Do they pity her, or do they just think she’s pathetic?

Catching herself before her thoughts spiral too far out of control, Catra settles her mind with a deep breath and hard squeeze of the railing. Of course Scorpia knows. Why wouldn’t she? Catra could only explain away so many bruises before Scorpia got suspicious, and she’s no doubt seen them on Lonnie now as well. Lonnie may have even told her, at this point.

Opening her eyes, Catra finds Scorpia watching her with curiosity and something that looks suspiciously like pity. Swallowing the urge to snap at her to mind her own fucking business, Catra speaks evenly. “I didn’t mean it was your fault.”

“But it was,” Scorpia insists. “It was my fault. I cost you marks on a big project, and if you weren’t such a genius it could have affected your letter grade.” When Catra squints at her questioningly, she admits, “I know you still got an A. I checked with Adora. I felt bad.”

Catra scoffs in disbelief. “ _You_ felt bad?”

“Yeah. I fucked up, dude. You had every right to be mad,” says Scorpia. “And I forgive you, for what you said. You’re right, it wasn’t okay, but I understand.” Scorpia sips her coke slowly, pensive eyes floating off somewhere in the distance. Her brows furrow as she licks her lips, and she returns her gaze to Catra. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” Catra teases her. It’s a phrase she’s said many times to Scorpia, often to mock her and assert her own dominance. But this time she smiles, softening the delivery.

It does nothing to break the tension. Scorpia’s eyes are narrow yet vulnerable when she asks, “Why did you kiss me?”

A cold rush hits Catra’s brain and she _feels_ the gates slamming shut inside her. That’s enough honesty for one night. Eyes flicking out into the driveway, she mutters, “I dunno.”

“Yeah you do,” Scorpia asserts quietly.

Those words, and the subtle pain in them, lodge deep in Catra’s chest. She’s made a point of not examining her motives for this indiscretion for a reason. Yeah, if she’s really being honest, she does know. But she’s never let herself even think it, let alone say it.

“Because I was drunk, I guess,” she tries, hoping that will satiate Scorpia.

“Catra, please, I need to understand.” Scorpia’s voice is strained, clearly on the verge of cracking, and it makes Catra’s throat cramp in turn. She swallows hard, fighting in vain to seal off the cracks in her armor. It’s too late for that.

“It will make it easier,” urges Scorpia, “really putting this behind me. Behind us.”

Maybe it will make it easier for her. For Catra, it’s agonizing. But it’s what Scorpia needs, and Catra owes her this. And maybe, just maybe it’s what Catra needs too. That doesn’t make it any easier.

“I kissed you…” Sucking in a shuddering breath, Catra confesses, “I kissed you because I was sad. I was lonely, and you made me feel wanted.” Her brain suddenly catches up with her mouth and she looks up in alarm. “Not like in a sex way.” Her cheeks are flaring with sudden heat but Scorpia has the good grace not to comment on it, keeping her reaction to only a tiny smirk. Huffing out a nervous laugh, Catra admits, “I mean, that too, but… you made me feel valuable. Like I meant something to somebody.”

Catra’s voice is dangerously close to cracking by the time she finishes that sentence. She has to turn away, it’s instinct. Time has taught her that vulnerability is something to be ashamed of, something that invariably leads to pain of one kind or another.

Scorpia shifts beside her and a large hand lightly cups her shoulder, an uncharacteristically tentative touch that only makes everything worse. Scorpia never would have hesitated before, never used to be scared of Catra’s reaction.

“Wildcat, you mean something to so many people,” Scorpia states, thumb brushing lightly over Catra’s sleeve.

“Sure,” scoffs Catra.

“You do,” she insists, squeezing Catra’s shoulder as though she can somehow inject the belief into her. “I don’t know how you can’t see that.”

Catra’s scoff is even more bitter this time around. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“It is a Weaver thing?”

A Weaver thing. A Lonnie thing. Even an Adora thing, sometimes. But really, it goes back further than that. It’s deeper than that. It’s the very experience of being an orphan. When you’re a child relegated to the care of strangers who treat you like a commodity, like an inconvenience, it’s hard not to feel alone, unwanted, worthless. To be fair, there was no one left to want Catra, no one left to turn their back on her. Catra’s parents were orphans too, that’s how they met. It could be worse. She could be Adora, with a junkie mother and a nameless father and presumably grandparents who passed on taking her in.

Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. In fact, in a way it makes it harder, knowing what she had and that it was ripped away from her so senselessly by some idiot drunk driver. The memories make her current reality all the more unbearable. Sometimes if she closes her eyes and tunes out all the pain around her, she can remember kind words and loving touches from a grown up. The memories hurt, but she clings to these scraps all the same: Mommy drawing with her on the kitchen floor, laughter sparkling in her bright blue eyes. Papi carrying her on his shoulders on a hike through the forest, his hands securely around her shins. The creases that would form in Mommy’s freckled cheeks when she grinned and poked Catra between the eyes. The way Papi would gently rock her to sleep, his chest rumbling with the deep strains of a lullaby.

Catra remembers those songs word for word. She couldn’t tell you what said words mean in English, though, not off the top of her head. Mommy barely spoke any Spanish so Catra grew up mostly hearing English around the house, only Spanish when it was just her and Papi. He taught her some before they died, she remembers him pointing at objects and quizzing her, but the lullabies are all she really retained. By the time Rogelio came to Weaver’s when Catra was eight and she finally got someone to practice Spanish with, she’d lost most of it already.

Just one more thing she’s lost.

“Catra?” Scorpia’s voice cuts through her thoughts, pulling her back to the question at hand. But Catra doesn’t know what to say. How can she possibly explain? There’s no way to communicate with words the kind of loss she’s experienced and the abuse she’s suffered since and how hard it is for her to trust that anyone will actually _be there_ for her.

Scorpia’s at least partly right. Weaver’s house is a place of nightmares for her. That woman has disliked her from day one and it only got worse when she and Adora latched onto each other. But what did she expect, with two girls the same age in a house of older kids? They were all each other had. Until Lonnie, anyway, and that sure didn’t help the situation either. Catra hasn’t felt safe in her own home since her parents died. If it weren’t for Adora, Catra would have run away a long time ago. And even Adora makes Catra feel so worthless sometimes, with her boasting and preening and bossy quarterback attitude. She always has to be the best, which by extension means she has to be better than Catra. And even if Adora doesn’t act that way all the time, Weaver will never let Catra forget it.

“It’s a life thing,” she finally says, hoping that’s enough. She doesn’t want to explain and she sure doesn’t want to tell Scorpia how her own girlfriend has contributed to her issues. Well okay, the temptation is there, but it would feel wrong to sabotage Lonnie’s attempts to be a better person when Catra’s in need of so much forgiveness herself.

Eyes burning with unshed tears, Catra sniffles back what’s trying to leak out of her nose. When she finally turns her head, she finds a sad smile on Scorpia’s lips.

“Do you want a hug?” she asks. Catra’s eyes pop slightly at the suggestion and she raises her hands non-threateningly. “You don’t have to,” she backtracks sheepishly, “I’m trying to be better too. About respecting your space and all. You were right about that.”

Wiping her eyes, Catra smiles shyly up at Scorpia. “A hug would be nice.”

Still, she can’t help tensing a little as Scorpia steps forward, automatically sucking in a breath as she prepares to have her lungs crushed. But this time Scorpia’s arms are gentle. They’re still heavy where they rest on her shoulders, but without the crushing pressure they have a nice grounding effect. When Scorpia rests her chin on top of Catra’s head Catra automatically scowls into her chest, but she honestly doesn’t mind. Not when she knows Scorpia’s doing it to make her feel safe, not small.

Releasing her after a long moment, Scorpia looks down on her with a soft, affectionate smile. It’s still a little wistful, but lacks the pain from earlier. Maybe things really are going to be okay.

“Coming back inside?” she asks.

Eyes flicking back out into the street briefly, Catra answers, “In a minute. I’ll see you down there.”

With a final nod and smile, Scorpia slips back inside. The music filtering up the stairs joins Catra in the dark of the night for a couple seconds before the door dampens it again, leaving her alone. All the tension bleeds from her body and she slumps forward against the railing, a dazed but pleasantly empty feeling in her head. She leans into that feeling for a minute, her thumb flicking the can’s tab back and forth on repeat. When a gust of wind chills her cheeks and tickles them with wisps of her hair, returning her to the moment, a smile spreads across her face.

***

When Catra returns downstairs, Adora’s sitting on the arm of one of the couches, one knee pulled to her chest as she watches the screen. Entrapta’s currently battling Rogelio in a game of Wii tennis, which is about the dumbest thing Catra’s ever seen, but whatever. Adora notices Catra when she’s halfway across the room and quickly stands, meeting her on the edge of the dance floor.

Pushing the obvious worry off her face with a strained smile, Adora asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Catra breathes out, her own smile small but genuine. “I’m good.”

Adora’s lips waver slightly, the smile still not reaching her eyes, and she reaches out to give Catra’s shoulder a firm, awkward pat. “I’m glad.”

Now Catra’s the concerned one. Tipping her head, she asks, “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” lies Adora, and Catra squints at her.

“You seem a little-”

“I’m fine, Catra,” Adora cuts her off, the forced brightness in her tone painfully incongruent with the sorrow in her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, it’s your birthday.”

Shaking her head with a scoff, Catra edges half a step closer, lowering her voice. “Adora, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I can’t be happy knowing you’re unhappy.” Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What happened? Did someone make fun of you? You know I’ll kill them, right? I’m the only one allowed to make fun of you.”

Adora’s throat bobs as she turns her face away, a choked laugh bursting from her throat. “I really don’t deserve you.”

“Please,” mutters Catra. Cupping Adora’s cheek, she turns her face back, meeting her eyes with a smile. Her thumb brushes Adora’s cheekbone and a shuddering breath escapes Adora’s lungs, her eyes falling to the hardwood. A single tear leaks from her eye and Catra’s gut tightens painfully as she wipes it away. Adora’s suffering has always been harder for Catra to endure than her own. At least when it’s herself she can deal with it, or not deal with it. Thankfully, knowing Adora for most of their lives has given her a pretty good toolkit for dealing with these things.

“I’m going to hug you now, okay?” announces Catra. Asking Adora if she wants a hug generally just causes her more distress, gives her one more thing to think about when she’s already overloaded. Adora gives a jerky nod and Catra steps in, wrapping her arms securely around Adora’s torso and pinning her arms to her ribs. Adora’s still standing stiff in her grip, though. “Tighter?”

“Yeah,” whispers Adora. When Catra obeys, the tension finally leaves Adora’s body, her chin relaxing onto Catra’s shoulder with a sigh. Moving entirely on instinct, Catra tips her head to rub her cheek against Adora’s. Her hands are kind of occupied, after all, locked tightly around her own biceps to maintain the pressure. Adora responds by nuzzling into Catra’s shoulder, but her throat bobs again against Catra’s collarbone. Clearly this isn’t enough, so Catra wracks her brain for another strategy. Anything to cheer Adora up, get her mind off whatever’s bothering her.

“Hey, wanna have a push up contest?” is what she comes up with.

Adora snorts into her neck and Catra smiles. Shrugging off Catra’s arms, Adora steps back and sizes her up, eyes gleaming competitively in that way Catra loves. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that, Diaz.”

She really should know better than to say something like that, knowing Catra’s abilities. Oh well, that’s just more motivation to kick her ass.

With this many jocks in one room, it turns into quite the event. Rogelio makes Entrapta pause the game so he can partake, and Entrapta gleefully accepts the role of referee. At Adora’s request, she changes the music to something with a strong beat, and the competitors shake their arms out and begin to take their positions on the floor.

Catra’s getting in the zone, the music narrowing her focus, but when the lyrics start and she recognizes the voice she almost chokes on her laughter. “Is this Nickelback?”

“It’s one of Scorpia’s favorite workout songs!” Entrapta says in her own defense.

Scorpia gasps, one hand flying to her chest as everyone shares a laugh at her expense. “Et tu, Entrapta?”

In total there’s eleven of them on the floor when Entrapta says go, including Lonnie and Scorpia. But Catra’s not worried. This is just one more arena where people underestimate her. She’s lean, and yeah she definitely can’t bench as much as Scorpia or even Adora, but she’s strong for her size. She was a gymnast for fuck’s sake, bodyweight exercises are her jam.

As Catra expected, the meatier types drop off quickly. Scorp and Hel and the other linemen are used to pushing hard, of course, but never for long. They can’t keep the beat past twenty push ups, but Catra’s just getting started.

It comes down to her and Adora, as always. Catra thrives off of competition and loves beating Adora in particular, but sometimes she thinks having a nemesis other than Adora would be nice. It gets a little confusing. The lyrics aren’t exactly helping with that, either.

_‘I'm lovin’ what you wanna wear’  
‘Wonder what's up under there’  
‘Wonder if I'll ever have it under my tongue’_

Catra exhales hard with every push, trying to ignore Adora’s breathy grunts to her left. Sweat rolls down her brow and drips off her nose as her face heats up, and she’s glad she has the contest to blame for it. The rest of the room hollers and cheers but Catra barely hears any of it. It’s just her and Adora, locked in a battle of wills.

_‘S is for the simple need’_  
_‘E is for the ecstasy’_  
_‘X is just to mark the spot ‘cause that’s the one you really want’_

Adora keeps up longer than Catra expected, powered by pure competitive lesbian energy. Catra almost starts to worry she ran her big mouth and is about to have her ass handed to her, but soon after they hit the 50 mark Adora’s arms start to wobble, her breaths coming hard.

“Come on, Adora!” shouts Lonnie. “Don’t give up now!”

Of course Lonnie’s on her side. That just makes Catra grit her teeth and push through the burn with a breathless growl.

“Keep it up, Wildcat!” counters Scorpia. “Just a little more, she’s fading!”

Catra keeps pounding away and Adora finally falters, her jelly arms failing to match the beat in time.

“Adora, you’re out!” calls Entrapta. “That’s it!” Still, Adora doggedly fights through to the top of her final push up before collapsing in a heap. Grinning down at the floor, Catra keeps going. Might as well drive the point home. “Catra, you can stop now!”

A broken and beautiful laugh sounds beside Catra’s ear, a blunt fingernail poking into her shoulder as she works. “Show off.”

But Catra’s not just showing off. She has a goal. When Entrapta finally hits 69, she drops to the hardwood with a heavy gasp. Raising one hand, she pinches the tips of her thumb and forefinger together and pants, “Nice.”

That gets a laugh out of the crowd, including Adora. One of her hands touches Catra’s back and Catra turns her head to find her smiling. Genuinely, this time. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. Catra flips onto her back to see it better, and Adora’s hand ends up resting on her heaving stomach.

“Tell me again how you don’t like being the center of attention,” teases Adora, her speech still broken and breathless.

Catra just grins, clasping her hands behind her head. “Never said I didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referenced songs:  
> Womanizer - Britney Spears  
> Low - Flo Rida (feat. T-Pain)  
> Closer - Tegan & Sara  
> S.E.X. - Nickelback  
> (Please don’t turn my comments section into discourse about Nickelback. It is my solemn duty as a Canadian to roast them mercilessly but they have some decent bops, and that’s all I have to say about that.)
> 
> Be sure to come back for chapter 7, shit’s about to go down. It’s dramatic af so here let’s do a TV style trailer for it...
> 
> Next time, on Hail Mary:  
>  **Diaz For MVP**  
>  “Oh boy. Any chance Weaver won’t see this?”  
> “Would you rather I throw you out in the streets like the stray you are?”  
> “That’s my whole fucking life, Adora. God, you’re such an idiot.”


	7. Movin' on Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A controversial news article has unintended consequences for Catra. Adora has a questionable response to Catra's status upgrade and Catra's temper gets away from her. Ms. Weaver keeps on being her usual delightful self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm back! Just needed to get a couple chapters of Demons out of my system. You'll be getting new content for both fics reasonably soon, don't worry. :)
> 
> Content Warning for vomit, ableism, and a depiction (plus several mentions) of physical abuse. Nothing too terrible, but your mileage may vary.

The Monday morning PA announcements are more than kind to the football team, praising their come from behind win in the fourth quarter. It pays special tribute to the 68 yard touchdown pass and how the catch has since become a YouTube sensation. The classroom fills with whistles and cheers, drowning out the reader as they start listing game stats. Catra grins and soaks it in, cursing her skin for not being dark enough to obscure her blush (ugh, that’s what she gets for being half white). Adora pokes her shoulder and offers a fist for her to bump, which she pounds promptly. Adora’s not blushing, but why would she be? She’s used to the effusive praise.

“Congrats to Adora, Catra, and the rest of the Horde on a hard fought win,” the reader concludes. “You can catch their final regular season game at Thaymor High this Friday.”

Catra tucks her flushing face into her collar as the announcements continue. The room settles down, and just as her face starts to return to its normal color a punch in the arm turns her head. Adora’s leaning across the aisle again, her winning grin softened into a smaller smile. The kind Catra’s used to seeing when they stay up late whispering in Adora’s bunk, or when they snuggle on the couch watching NetFlix because they’re too tired to sit up. It doesn’t look like much, but it steals her breath all the same.

Cupping her shoulder, Adora gives it a tiny squeeze. And that smile is genuine as ever as she says, “It’s about time they started noticing you too.”

Catra smiles back.

Tuesday morning is a whole new ball game, so to speak.

It starts off badly enough. Catra falls back to sleep after Adora and Lonnie leave the room and she wakes up again when she should be getting ready to leave. Then she trips trying to struggle into her jeans and bangs her shoulder on the doorframe. Then she tries eating her burrito the second it’s out of the microwave and burns the shit out of her tongue.

What? She’s in a hurry. And it’s not like she can eat on the run, not on a motorcycle.

Cursing as well as she can with her tongue sticking out of her mouth, she runs to the sink and douses it with tap water. When it stops burning she grabs a wad of paper towels to wrap up the offending burrito and stuffs it in her backpack. She slings the bag over her shoulder, running for the door, and that’s when she hears the retching.

Her ears all but prick up, on alert as she looks back. It’s tempting to ignore the sound - it’s not like Weaver ever did much to care for her when she was sick. In fact, Catra vividly remembers being forced to scrub her own vomit out of the carpet on multiple occasions. But when she hears a loud groan she can’t resist the impulse that pulls her back into the house. Tiptoeing up to the bedroom door, she calls, “Ms. Weaver?”

When she hears only another groan, she knocks and calls out again, louder. “Ms. Weaver, you okay?”

Then there’s another explosion of vomit hitting water, and Catra bursts through the door at the sound. She’s not supposed to come in here unless she’s been summoned, she learned that lesson in the most terrifying of ways when she was five, but she can’t stop herself. Hurrying into the ensuite, she stands over her former guardian and holds her hair back as she continues to retch.

When the urge seems to pass and Weaver rests her forehead on the back of her hand with another groan, Catra steps to the side to get a look at her face. Grimacing in sympathy (and at the smell), she asks, “Are you okay?”

Finally Weaver seems to notice she’s not alone. Pushing up off the seat a little, she turns her head and glares. “What are you doing here?”

“You sounded like maybe you needed help,” replies Catra, with less sass than she normally would answer such an obvious question. Scanning the bathroom for Weaver’s phone, she asks, “You want me to call the school, tell them you’re sick?”

“I meant you’re late for school, Catra,” Weaver says flatly. “Maybe worry less about me and more about your own abysmal attendance record.”

“I’ve been late like twice all year,” protests Catra, arms crossing over her chest. Weaver doesn’t even ream her out for the sass, just slumps harder against the toilet. She must really be feeling it. “You want a glass of water or something? Ginger ale?”

“Get. Out.”

“Fine,” snaps Catra. “Just don’t say I never tried to repay you for all your sacrifices or whatever.”

Storming out of the room, Catra mutters, “And she calls me ungrateful.”

***

The parade of suck continues when Catra gets to school. Thanks to her speed demon tendencies and a lack of cops she’s only a few minutes late for homeroom, sliding into her seat as the morning announcements finish. The teacher raises an eyebrow and Catra flashes her most charming grin, breathing a sigh of relief when she sees him marking her on the attendance sheet.

Finally able to relax a little for the first time since she woke up again, Catra looks over at Adora, who responds with an uncharacteristically tight smile. She squints questioningly, but Adora just pointedly flicks her eyes to Mr. McKay and back. Rolling her eyes, Catra pretends to listen to the rest of the in-class announcements. If she’d been on time she could have grabbed a copy of the school paper off his desk or pulled out her notes, had something to doodle on. Instead she’s stuck jiggling her knee under her desk to stay sane, hoping it’s quiet enough to avoid detection.

When he finally stops talking Catra digs out one of her textbooks, sadly eyeing her lukewarm burrito. Her stomach growls but she knows better than to push her luck after showing up late, and Tuesday is the worst possible day for her to get a detention. For one, she works 6-10:30 on Tuesdays and she needs the time between school and practice to maintain some level of sanity. More to the point, she has a free period at the end of the day on Tuesdays and Thursdays, giving her two days a week where she can go home early and get some time to herself in the house for once. Between rooming with two other girls and having a gold medallist in the Bitch Olympics for a foster mom, that time is precious, and she is not throwing it away over a growling belly. (She’s used to growling bellies, anyway. Thanks, Weaver.)

“Miss Diaz,” comes a voice from in front of her, and Catra blinks her eyes back into focus. Mr. McKay is standing over her, a newspaper in his outstretched hand. “Seems you’re moving up in the world.”

“Uh, thanks,” she says, taking it with a squint.

“Nice catch, by the way,” he adds. “Finally watched it last night. Good stuff, kiddo.”

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes at that last bit, she nods in acknowledgement. “Thanks.”

Glancing down at the paper, he tells her, “Flip it over,” then wanders back to his desk.

Too curious to resist despite the sudden butterflies in her stomach, Catra does as he says. And there it is, on the bottom half of the front page. A picture of her soaring to catch that now famous pass, and a controversial headline: **Diaz For MVP**

The article is by Entrapta, of course. After what she said to Catra after the Bright Moon game it really shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does anyway. No one’s ever stuck their neck out for her like this, not in a sports context. Once the initial shock passes, a grin slowly parts her lips and she starts reading. She takes her time, savoring every word.

The beginning of the article keeps that grin on Catra’s face, with Entrapta referring to her as one of the hardest working players on the team (finally someone notices), incredibly versatile, and perpetually underrated. Then, of course, Entrapta devolves into another one of her stats rants, all the ones she mentioned to Catra after the game plus a few more. There’s a couple choice quotes from her post-game interview as well. It’s nice, professionally written. It’s not until Catra reads the final paragraph that her stomach drops, icy dread washing over her from head to toe.

> Catra Diaz is not only the heart of the Horde, she’s the linchpin. And come awards season, she deserves the Most Valuable Player award from the team and the regional league alike. It’s easy to always pick the quarterback, but sometimes we need to look beyond the obvious choice. Examining the stats, it’s impossible to dispute that Diaz is the most valuable player to this team, to any team in the league. Data doesn’t lie.

Catra keeps staring at the page, but her eyes go out of focus. Her breaths come quick and shallow, knuckles going white as her fists crumple the edges of the paper. 

She’s dead. She is so dead. The assertion that Catra is the best player on the team is bad enough, but for Entrapta to specify Adora as someone less valuable than her? Weaver’s gonna have Catra’s head, or at the very least kick her ass.

Studying is out of the question when she can’t possibly focus on anything else. Catra spends the next twenty minutes reading the article over and over, marinating in the strange cocktail of pride, gratitude, and dread. When the bell finally rings to release them to first period, she numbly packs her bag and follows the crowd. She doesn’t stuff her burrito in her mouth the second she’s outside, as she’d been planning to before the floor dropped out from under her. She’s lost her appetite.

An elbow pokes her ribcage and Catra realizes she’s stopped at the edge of the hall. Glancing over, she finds Adora peering at her with a furrowed brow, eyes slightly narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?”

Gesturing at the paper still in her grasp as their classmates push past them, Catra asks, “Any chance Weaver won’t see this?”

“Doubt it,” says Kyle, startling them both as his head pokes forward between theirs to peek down at the paper. He has homeroom with McKay too but Catra didn’t notice him lingering behind them. “They post all the articles online too, and I’m pretty sure Weaver reads all the football ones. She gets the really good ones framed.”

“Shut up, Kyle,” mutters Catra, palming his face and pushing it away. It’s not like they don’t all know about Adora’s little hall of fame in Weaver’s room.

“Why wouldn’t _you_ want her to see it?” grumbles Adora, hands shoving deep into the pockets of her varsity jacket. “You’re not the one getting casually insulted.”

“Because I’m the one who’s supposed to be getting casually insulted,” Catra says flatly. Is Adora really that oblivious? “That’s how things work, Captain. We put in the same work and you get all the glory.”

Scowling down at her, Adora retorts, “Okay, don’t take it out on me because I’m the quarterback. Win or lose, it all comes back to me.”

Catra scoffs, pointedly looking Adora up and down. “Wow, you want me to get you a pillow so you can go down on yourself a little more?”

As Kyle very smartly tiptoes away behind her, Adora protests, “That’s not what I-”

“You can’t even be happy for me, can you?” demands Catra. “Oh no, how dare someone say I’m better than you for a change? How’s it feel, Adora? Tell me.”

Adora glowers in stony silence a moment before saying, “You know what, fine, you be the MVP. See how it feels to never be able to live up to expectations.”

Mouth falling open, Catra scoffs once more. “You think I don’t know how that feels? That’s my whole fucking life, Adora. God, you’re such an idiot.”

Adora’s face crumples and Catra regrets that choice of words immediately. She can see the hurt brimming in the girl’s eyes, the tiny tremble in her jaw as she turns away.

“Adora, wait!” she calls, reaching out for her. But Adora’s heard enough, jerking her arm away and leaving without looking back. Catra’s fingertips slip off the leather sleeve and hang uselessly for a moment before curling into a fist. Exhaling sharply, she slaps her forehead with her other hand.

_“Fuck.”_

***

So that’s how Catra wound up beating cookie dough at 2:30 in the afternoon, flour all over her dumb ‘smooch the chef’ apron. Catra’s bad at apologies, but as anyone who knows Adora can tell you, the way to that woman’s heart is through her stomach. And judging by the way Adora ignored Catra for the rest of the day, sitting with other friends at lunch and not shooting her so much as a glare during their shared classes, a big apology is needed. Catra can only hope two dozen of her favorite cookies is a sufficient peace offering.

She starts on the dishes as soon as the cookies are in the oven because if Weaver comes home to a dirty kitchen she’ll flip her shit. She finishes just in time for the buzzer to go off and pulls out the cookie sheets, leaving them to cool there a few minutes before transferring them to wire racks.

The quiet house and lingering scent of cinnamon in the air begin to relax Catra as she unpacks her backpack on the dining room table, preparing to do her homework. Maybe Adora just needed time to cool off. She needed time to cool off too. It’s just so easy to snap and get defensive, a lifelong habit she’s been trying to break. And Adora knows all that. Things will be fine.

Right?

The sound of keys in the front door makes Catra frown in confusion as she unloads the last of her books. No one is ever home this early. Even when Weaver doesn’t have any sponsored clubs or other teacher bullshit to deal with, 3:15 is the earliest she ever gets home.

But Catra’s always had sensitive ears, and those are definitely Ms. Weaver’s footsteps crossing the floor. When the woman pokes her head into the kitchen, no doubt to investigate the smell, Catra gives her a jerky nod. “Went to work after all?”

“No, I had some errands to run,” Weaver replies flatly. “Lying around all day like a lazy sack of meat doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“Yeah, me neither,” mutters Catra, deflecting the obvious implication.

“I have something for you,” says Weaver, and Catra can’t help but look up in surprise. Weaver tosses her something and she instinctively moves to catch it. Just before it hits her hands, she realizes what it is and her stomach drops. Fingering the rough edges of the rolled up newspaper, she tries to breathe steadily as she forces her eyes up to meet Weaver’s. The woman looks more unimpressed than predatory right now, but Catra knows better than anyone how that can change at the drop of a hat.

“Looks like your little ploy paid off,” she remarks.

Sighing, Catra sets the paper down on the table. “I told you, it wasn’t a ploy. Just a play.”

“I see. And I suppose the fact that this article was written by a close friend of yours is a complete coincidence.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Catra denies swiftly. When Weaver’s expression doesn’t change, she insists, “Really, I swear.”

Weaver’s head tips the slightest bit, that familiar predatory tinge seeping into her eyes and voice. “And why should I believe you?”

Catra huffs, arms crossing defensively over her chest. “Why would I do something I know would get me in trouble?”

“I don’t know, Catra, you tell me,” says Weaver, slowly closing the gap between them. “It’s not as though you’ve been doing that your entire life.”

Tensing more with every step Weaver takes, Catra raises her hands innocently, trying and failing not to shift her weight to her back foot. Not to give ground or show her fear. “Look, Entrapta has really strong opinions, and they’re always backed up with facts. I couldn’t just plant the idea in her head to write something like this.”

“Facts, you say?” muses Weaver. She reaches past Catra in a very deliberate show of invading her space, and Catra can’t help but suck a quick breath in through her teeth. But Weaver doesn’t touch her. All she does is pick up the paper and turn it over in her hands as though she is deep in thought. Then the motion stops, her eyes snapping up sharply. “So you agree with her.”

“That’s not what I said,” protests Catra, her exasperation showing through her tenuous attempts at staying calm. “Stats are facts, not who deserves what awards or whatever. It’s not like I even care about that.”

Weaver shakes her head, her chuckle positively dripping with condescension. “Oh, now I _know_ you’re lying.”

“No, I-”

The newspaper smacks Catra across the cheek and she yelps in shock and pain, hand flying to her mouth.

It shouldn’t be a shock, not after 14 years of this shit. It still is, every time.

“Enough of your lip,” hisses Weaver. “You know better than to contradict me.”

Catra’s tongue swipes along her stinging lip, checking for blood. It comes back clean, but the lack of physical damage does nothing to calm the quiet rage boiling up inside of her. Weaver has never treated her with an ounce of respect, and now she has the gall to hit her with a rolled up newspaper like she’s a fucking animal. Subhuman. Catra’s fists clench and her chest puffs out as she straightens up to her full height (even if it’s nothing on Weaver).

“Do _not_ touch me,” growls Catra, her voice low and dangerous in a way few people have ever heard it. “I’m an adult, that’s officially illegal now.”

“Oh, you want to talk about the law?” counters Weaver, sounding far too calm in comparison. It just makes Catra angrier. And maybe a little scared. Somehow Weaver always makes her feel out of control, which never ceases to remind her who _is_ in control. “I am under no obligation to let you live here, Catra, let alone at a significant discount. I do that out of the kindness of my heart. Would you rather I throw you out in the streets like the stray you are?”

Those words hit Catra right in the gut, a blow far more painful than any physical one. They trigger a flood of other words that always seem to find her, stick to her no matter how she tries to slough them off, prove them wrong. Stray, nuisance, brat, worthless, unwanted, unloved...

But she was loved once. She was.

_Kneeling in front of the open door, Papi opened his arms for a goodbye hug. When Catra stepped into them, she felt his smile against the side of her head. “Te amo, mija.”_

_“Yo también te amo, Papi,” said Catra, tiny arms tightening around his neck with a proud grin. He hadn’t taught her that one, she’d pieced it together on her own._

_Papi chuckled in surprise and approval, ruffling her wild hair. “You’re a genius, little one. You know that?”_

_“Yep!” she answered, beaming with the completely earnest confidence only a precocious three year-old can muster._

_A couple playful taps of the horn from the driveway interrupted them, making Papi chuckle once again. Pulling away enough to look Catra in the eye, he winked conspiratorially. “Better not keep Mommy waiting. You know how she is.”_

_Catra shook her head soberly in agreement. Mommy was notoriously impatient, a speed demon on the road. Catra loved driving with her, laughing like a maniac from the backseat whenever she’d swerve and cuss out the idiots in her way. Those cackles never failed to make Mommy shoot Catra a smile in the rearview mirror, her transitory rage melting away in an instant at the sound. Still, it was never good being on the receiving end of that impatience._

_Papi quickly pecked Catra on the cheek before standing and waving goodbye, giving an appreciative nod to the babysitter as he pulled the door shut behind him._

He didn’t slam it or anything, but no sound is louder in Catra’s nightmares. She never saw either of them again.

“Answer me, Catra,” Ms. Weaver demands sternly.

That was what she had. And this is where she ended up.

Suddenly noticing the tears rolling down her cheeks, Catra swipes them away with the back of her hand. Her throat hurts too much to swallow, so she doesn’t even bother trying to settle her voice. Her weakness is already on full display, anyway. Shaking her head, she whispers hoarsely, “No, Ms. Weaver.”

“Good,” Weaver says with finality as Catra sniffles, blinking back more tears. “You still live under my roof, and you will abide by my rules or face the consequences, just like anyone else.”

Just like anyone else. Sure.

As Weaver starts toward her room, Catra half-heartedly tosses a hand with an empty, resigned sigh. “What rules did I break this time?”

Weaver turns back, her expression dangerous, but Catra can’t muster the enthusiasm for fear anymore. Her eyes are still burning, voice tight with emotion as she confesses, “I’ve tried, Ms. Weaver. I-” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head, pinching her brow in shame. “I never wanted you to hate me.”

When Catra dares to look back up she finds that Weaver’s expression has softened slightly, though she still looks annoyed. “I never said I hate you,” she says, the uncharacteristic gentleness catching Catra off guard. “You’re just more trouble than you’re worth most of the time.”

It shouldn’t be a comfort. But it is, anyway. It is. Catra sniffles again, dipping her head to wipe her eyes on her shoulders.

“Though I will admit, you do have a way with Adora,” concedes Weaver, her tone very nearly impressed. “Not everyone can handle someone like that and keep them on task. I’ve had plenty come through my classroom.”

Wow, so we’re just being casually ableist now? Nice.

...Ableist and pragmatic.

Catra snorts under her breath, shaking her head as her eyes fall to the floor. How did she never put this together before? “That’s why you’re letting me stay.”

“She does badly with her routine being disrupted, and she’s come to rely on you,” states Weaver, tipping her head in acknowledgement.

“Plus she’d hate you if you kicked me out,” Catra adds pointedly.

Weaver smiles, all teeth. “It is better for everyone this way, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” mutters Catra. When that response earns her a _look_ , she corrects herself. “Yes, Ms. Weaver.”

Eyes narrowed into slits, Weaver warns her, “Make no mistake, Catra. Adora would manage if you left us. If your behavioral issues begin to outweigh your usefulness, I reserve the right to evict you.” She cocks an expectant eyebrow. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbles Catra.

“I care very much about Adora, and I won’t have you dragging her down with you.”

“I remember,” Catra says numbly, picking at her nails and avoiding Weaver’s gaze.

Studying her intently for a moment, Weaver concludes, “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Then she turns and leaves without another word.

Catra stares after her until yet another door closes in her face. Her eyelids flutter as the spell breaks and she turns back to the table, the daunting pile of books. She thankfully doesn’t have much homework due tomorrow, and honestly she’s too dazed to focus on that right now. Instead, Catra sets about scrubbing the cookie sheets. Probably harder than she needs to.

Weaver is so full of shit. She doesn’t care about Adora. She doesn’t care about any of them, just what they can do for her. She doesn’t care for her wards so much as cultivate their talents and rake in the cash from their stipends, cash the state is only too happy to give. It doesn’t take a genius to notice that Weaver’s group home is a dumping ground for kids that no one wanted to adopt and were too much trouble for the orphanages to handle. Adora and Catra were hyperactive and disruptive, Lonnie was a bully with a hair trigger temper and a propensity for getting in fights, and Kyle was a nervous wreck who was afraid of strangers and cried all the time about missing his mommy and daddy. He also got terrible night terrors from the car accident he lost his parents in and woke up screaming most nights.

And Rogelio… well, Rogelio might actually be the most normal among them. Catra suspects he ended up at Weaver’s because she wanted to round out her house with a fifth long-term kid in the same grade so she could retire when they all finished school and turned 18. He fit the bill for long-term fostering not because he was disruptive or high-maintenance, but because no one wanted to adopt a sullen brown boy who barely talks. It’s bullshit, but that’s how things work in the system. A system that was all too glad to send these 'problem children' away and wash their hands of the situation.

One time, they tried reporting the abuse. There was a lousy excuse for an investigation, during which Weaver claimed they were lying and all their bruises came from each other. Obviously, given their histories. Besides, she said, children like that need tough discipline to prepare them for the world. The workers who interviewed them didn’t seem to believe Weaver's story, but they also didn’t seem to care. After the case was dismissed there was a crackdown where she terrorized all of them for weeks, even Adora. 

They never bothered trying again. That was a formative lesson in Catra’s young life, one proven over and over ever since. Why bother trying when all you get is shit, either way? She doesn’t have it in her not to try at all, because she does care, does want to improve her life and make something of herself, but it’s so hard to stay motivated with someone like Weaver (and life in general) chopping her legs out from under her every chance they get.

Fact is, Catra can struggle and strive all she wants, and all it does is suck her deeper into the quicksand. There’s no moving up in this world, no future, not for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry guys, this is still a more lighthearted fic overall (at least by my standards). Next chapter we’re back to predominantly Catradora, with lots of fluff and yearning. Now let's get to the TV style trailer...
> 
> Next time, on Hail Mary:  
> “Women just can’t resist my charms.”  
> “You know I have no impulse control.”  
> "I've walked in on a lot worse."  
> “Would you two do us all a favor and just make out already?”


	8. Mrs. Brightside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora and Catra each make an overture of apology. Catra and Lonnie lock horns on multiple occasions, leaving Adora feeling conflicted about her own role in Catra's life. A conversation with Ms. Weaver leads Adora to an uncomfortable truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, it's been a crazy time for me lately and I've had a hard time being able to focus enough to write. This is another monster chapter, so hopefully the wait is worth it. <3
> 
> After a rather spirited debate on Tumblr about whether or not Americans actually wear shoes indoors I decided the squad does not live in a house that allows it, since that aligns well with Ms. Weaver's general uptightness about keeping the house clean and orderly. So I went back and changed the final bit in chapter 2 so Catra doesn't have her boots on upstairs, fyi, not that it really changes anything significant.
> 
> Content warning in this chapter for pretty open talk about sexual themes including top/bottom banter (not about Catradora) and Adora again being pretty horny on main. It's more about the yearning, really, but there's a sexual component to it so ymmv. It's not really anything more objectionable than what we've seen previously but hey, I feel the need to say something when I push the T rating.

Catra is late to practice, of course.

It’s pretty much routine at this point. Catra always cuts it close on Tuesdays and Thursdays because she goes home after her last class. Just like Adora she seems to have a hard time managing and judging time, but unlike Adora she doesn’t put in the effort to make up for it. How hard can it be, really? Adora’s pretty much geared up already, only her gloves and helmet lying on the bench beside her, and Catra’s still nowhere to be seen.

Honestly, Catra’s tardiness would barely bother Adora on a good day, but she’s still pissed about this morning. Come to think of it, it might be for the best if she doesn’t see Catra before practice starts. She’s not exactly itching to get into another fight with her in front of half the team.

Standing with a sigh, Adora gathers her things to stow in her locker before hitting the field. Their changeroom isn’t fancy like the ones at Bright Moon High, just long benches with a bunch of hooks and shelves above and a bank of dented lockers at the end of the room. Just as Adora reaches them, she hears Lonnie crow, “Hey, look, it’s the MVP!” 

She freezes, a sudden wave of excitement and dread rolling over her. Peeking over her shoulder, she finds Catra standing near the door. The new arrival has a tupperware container resting on one hip and a hand on the other, a lazy eyebrow cocked high on her forehead as Lonnie serenades her with a slow clap.

“How much you charging for autographs now, big shot?” teases Lonnie. “Fifty cents?”

“Oh, you’d know a lot about charging fifty cents, wouldn’t you?” Catra shoots back in an instant, eyes sparkling with the thrill of combat.

Lonnie smirks and opens her mouth to return fire, but Scorpia cuts in, “Way to go, Wildcat! I loved it.”

Rolling her eyes, Lonnie turns to Scorpia with a huff. “Babe, how am I supposed to bust her balls if you keep undercutting me?”

“Sorry!” says Scorpia, lifting her giant mitts in a gesture of innocence. Suddenly, her eyes narrow. “Wait, no, I’m not sorry. I’m Catra’s number one fan, that’s like my thing.” When Lonnie scowls back, she holds her ground. “I’ve been her friend longer than I’ve been dating you.”

“Fine,” mutters Lonnie, arms crossing defensively over her chest.

“Aw, don’t take it personally, Lon,” Catra purrs, slinking closer with a pointed sway to her hips. She leans in too close, tongue flicking along her bottom lip as her grin splits them apart. “Women just can’t resist my charms.”

Lonnie’s cheeks go slack and darken slightly, her eyes dipping down for just a second. Then her jaw tightens and she shoves Catra out of her space with a fiery glare. “Get fucked, Catra.”

Firing off a wink as she saunters off, Catra teases, “Anytime. You know where to find me.”

Wincing, Adora turns back to her locker. There’s a little too much truth to that joke. It’s not common knowledge (in fact Adora might be the only one who knows), but Catra and Lonnie had a fling once upon a time. Well, fling might be a strong word for it. Catra has assured her it was purely hate fucking. The concept seems completely backwards to Adora, but maybe that’s just because she’s too naive and idealistic for her own good. Or so she’s been told.

At least now with Lonnie dating Scorpia, Adora doesn’t have to worry about anything jealousy-inducing coming of that little spat. She’s terrible at hiding her jealousy. Her emotions in general, really, but that one especially.

“Hey, Adora.” Catra’s voice is softer now, more genuine. Adora can’t help but look when she says her name like that. Catra’s leaning against the bank of lockers, still holding that mystery container. At least she has the decency to look sheepish after what she said this morning. “Wanna study with me later?”

Shoving the last of her clothes into her locker, Adora scoffs, “Why, because I’m so stupid?”

Catra’s eyes fall, her shoulders slumping. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Didn’t you?” Adora shoots back. She knows she’s not being entirely reasonable, that she probably overreacted in the first place, but Catra _knows_ how insecure she is about her learning disabilities and she doesn’t want to let her off the hook too easily. It’s not like that’s the first time Catra’s ever called her an idiot, in fact she does so fairly often, but it’s usually in an affectionate way. And it doesn’t mean what it sounds like, it’s code for something else. Another phrase Adora can’t quite decipher. But this was different, malicious.

Catra sighs, head tilting sideways to rest against the locker. When her eyes open again, there’s not a hint of aggression in them. “I’m sorry, okay? Really.”

That just about knocks Adora off her feet. Catra’s sparse apologies are usually either forced or casual, rarely so sincere. As the shock passes Adora notices the way her lips are starting to turn up, so she twists them into a smirk. Crossing her arms, she mirrors Catra’s position leaning against the lockers and teases her, “You really must be, if you’re saying it.”

Eyes flicking away, Catra shakes her head. Her voice is uncharacteristically weak when she says, “Don’t give me a hard time right now.”

Immediately Adora straightens up, a protective hand landing on Catra’s shoulder. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Catra doesn’t answer, still avoiding her gaze. Adora’s shoulders sag, her hand slipping off and falling to her side. She was just trying to make a joke. Like sure, she was picking on Catra a little, but Lonnie was just picking on her too and apparently that was okay.

Pushing out a frustrated sigh, Adora sweeps some loose strands of hair back behind her ear. Her eyes fall to the container and suddenly the cloud lifts as she catches a glimpse of the contents through the clear lid.

“Are those snickerdoodles?” she asks, eyes lighting up.

Catra nods once and hands them over without a word, eyes still down and shoulders drooping. Taking the cookies with a grin, Adora says, “Aw, you really are sorry.”

Catra’s eyes snap up, boring holes into Adora as she tries to snatch the container back. “Fine, I’ll eat them all myself.”

“You would never,” Adora says with a mock gasp, shielding it with her body and jamming it in her locker before Catra can make good on that threat.

“Watch me,” says Catra, stepping pointedly into her space, and suddenly Adora’s heart is fluttering and oh wow is it hot in here??

“No way,” huffs Adora, waving this off. “Not after you went to all that effort.” Slinging an arm around Catra’s neck lightning quick, she grinds her knuckles into the top of her head. “I can’t believe you like me. That’s so embarrassing for you.”

“Ow, stop it! Get off!” protests Catra, wrestling out of her grip. But there’s an undeniable grin on her face as she squares up, preparing to pounce. Tackling Adora to the floor, she shouts, “This is _not_ because I like you!”

They’re both laughing, and somehow their fingers end up linked and then they’re wrestling purely with their arms, Catra grinning gleefully down at Adora. Adora thinks her heart might explode. That smile is one of her favorite sights in the world. The visual of Catra hovering over her with a predatory glint in her eye isn’t exactly unpleasant, either.

“Would you two do us all a favor and just make out already?”

Lonnie’s words pierce the air, shattering the moment, and they break apart with a mutual “Ew!”

And oh, that _hurts_. Obviously it was a reflex and a lie on Adora’s part, she does _not_ want Catra to know the way she thinks about her, but hearing Catra say that…

Look, Adora knows she’s inexperienced and awkward and unfashionable, but she’s not gross. Is she? Maybe her mind… definitely her mind, actually, but she likes to think the rest of her is tolerable.

Catra doesn’t seem to agree, her lips puckered with disgust as she stands and turns to dig her gear out of her locker. Often she’ll offer to help Adora up after they wrestle but right now she’s clearly too grossed out to even look at Adora, much less touch her.

Adora’s hands are cold as she awkwardly gets back to her feet, dusts herself off. Grabbing her helmet and gloves from the bench, she loudly, abruptly announces, “Well, I’m gonna hit the field!”

That only makes everyone stare at her even harder. Even Catra turns her head, eyes wide with some emotion Adora can’t place. Feeling her cheeks flaring up, Adora clears her throat and tugs her helmet on before everyone sees her blush and practically runs out the door.

God, Adora, could you be any more awkward?

***

Climbing even the single flight of stairs at home after several rounds of tire runs and sprint ladders is an unpleasant proposition. Adora wouldn’t even bother with it since it’s her turn to cook dinner tonight, except Ms. Weaver will give her a scathing lecture if she happens to come out of her room and find Adora’s jacket and backpack cluttering the table or floor. So she trudges up the stairs, lagging behind the others as they bicker over who gets first shower. Ugh, maybe Catra was right about her not getting a good enough workout in the pocket.

Dumping her stuff on her bed, she heads straight back downstairs before she gives in to the temptation to sit down and inevitably finds herself unable to move again until Lonnie comes and yells at her. They have to enforce dinner rotation with each other because Ms. Weaver has adopted a policy of benign neglect with them when it comes to meals. She’ll stock the fridge and cupboards but she only cooks for and eats with them maybe once a week these days, if that, and when she does it usually comes with a massive guilt trip and a lengthy speech about the importance of “family bonding.”

Adora wonders if Weaver would still use that word if she knew how many of them have dated and/or fucked each other under her nose. Or are still dating, in the case of Kyle and Rogelio. Hel had a thing with Lonnie a couple years ago too, before he figured out he’s bi but leans heavily toward boys. Adora’s the only one who hasn’t dipped her toes in the group home pool… or any pool, for that matter.

Sometimes it gets lonely, if she’s being honest. Sure, she’s never made an effort, she’s always been busy with football and school (and work, in the summers), but none of them have shown any interest in her, either. Not that she’s actually interested in anyone other than Catra, but it would still be nice to at least feel desirable once in a while. Apparently Adora’s objectively attractive, and people moon over her from a distance because of the football stuff, but it hasn’t escaped her notice that once people start getting to know her they stop showing interest. You know, once they figure out how weird and awkward she is.

The bright side about the cooking arrangement, Adora supposes, is that she’s gotten pretty efficient at food prep. She has a few set meals where she knows the routine to make sure everything hot is done cooking at the same time. In this case: preheat the oven, Shake n’ Bake the pork chops, put them in the oven, dump the rice in the cooker, chop some veggies to throw in a salad. Once all that’s done, she starts on the dishes right away. She knows better than to leave dishes lying around Ms. Weaver’s kitchen.

She’s only just finished filling the sink when she hears a door open behind her and freezes, a creeping feeling crawling up her spine. She stays frozen, thoughts jumbling together as her alert ears track the encroaching footsteps. Is she in trouble? Is Weaver just coming out for some food? Was she being too noisy? ...Oh god, she was being too noisy.

“Adora, I’d like to speak with you,” says Weaver, her voice calm but authoritative as ever. It’s clearly not a request, despite the innocuous enough wording.

Gulping down the sudden lump in her throat, Adora nods quickly and gives the only possible answer to that command (unless she wants to make things so much worse for herself, like _some_ people she knows). “Yes, ma’am.”

Following Weaver into her sanctum, Adora pulls the door shut behind her and wills her fingers not to fidget as she turns to face her. Displays of weakness and disrespect are not tolerated in this house, much less behind this door. Forcing what she hopes is a pleasant smile onto her face, Adora asks, “Are you feeling better?” Weaver’s eyes narrow slightly and she quickly explains, “Catra said you were sick this morning.”

Something flashes behind Weaver’s eyes, her lips pursing in a tight smile, and Adora stiffens on impulse. “I am very well, thank you for asking,” Weaver says flatly. And oh, oh no. Adora might have trouble reading most people, but she knows Weaver, knows that look. She’s just gotten Catra in trouble again. Fuck, why can’t she figure out what is okay to say to who and when she needs to keep her fucking mouth shut?

Okay, she knows why, but why does it have to be her? It’s so much easier for everyone else.

“How are you, Adora?” asks Weaver, her tone a couple degrees warmer but expectant in an ominous way. “I know it must have been a… challenging day for you.”

Adora’s fingertips spark with energy begging to be spent, her breaths picking up at the promise of a lecture. “So you read…”

“Yes.”

Gulping hard, Adora begins to ramble. “I’m sorry, I know me getting MVP means a lot to you. I’m working hard, I promise, I’m doing everything I can not to disappoint you, it’s just-”

“Calm yourself, Adora,” Weaver cuts in sharply. The reprimand makes her eyes sting in warning and she slams them shut, fists clenching in determination. She’d beat back her own weakness barehanded if she could. She wants to be strong, and she wants to obey. If only all her best ways of calming herself weren’t considered rude or disrespectful, especially in the middle of a conversation.

“That’s better,” says Weaver, a small, proud smile gracing her lips. Adora can’t help mirroring it, shoulders sagging in relief. “There’s no need for you to be alarmed,” continues Weaver. “I’m not angry with you, I’m concerned for you.”

“Oh.” Adora blinks. “Uh, I- I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you sure about that?” presses Weaver, cocking her head. “You hide it remarkably well for someone with your condition, but I know your confidence can be fragile.”

Eyes dropping, Adora snorts, “Tell that to-”

She catches herself just in time, thank god. Her head snaps up, eyes widening with panic, but she forces the fear down and adopts a mask of sheepishness as she deflects, “People like to tell me I’m full of myself.”

“ _People_ are just jealous of your success.” A cold hand lands on Adora’s shoulder, bestowing it with a rare reassuring squeeze that allows her thrumming body a small measure of relief. “Do not worry about what some amateur ‘reporter’ thinks,” says Weaver. “We both know her opinion is biased, given the company she keeps.”

“Maybe,” mutters Adora, eyes falling. Really, Entrapta is the most objective person she knows. Some would say she’s too objective. “It’s hard to argue with stats.”

“Statistics can only tell you so much,” insists Weaver. “If you really watch the game, you can see who’s steering the ship, making the plays. Broken records and showy plays do not an MVP make. It’s the intangibles. Intelligence. Hard work. Leadership.”

Adora’s forehead crinkles in thought. She can’t deny that Ms. Weaver is right. On the other hand, she can’t deny that Catra provides all those qualities too.

“You are the linchpin, not Catra,” Weaver tells her, that hand rising to cup her cheek. “Without a good quarterback, the team ceases to exist. You know that.” Her thumb brushes Adora’s cheekbone, and she can’t help leaning into the touch. Weaver smiles in response and reassures her, “You are the leader, the star.”

Despite the chill of Weaver’s fingers, Adora’s cheek grows warm at the praise, at the reassurance of her value. But then that foggy warmth melts away, her stomach sinking with a horrifying realization.

Catra was right. Adora was proud of Catra’s success, happy to share the spotlight, but only so long as Catra didn’t overshadow her. Only so long as it didn’t come at her expense, threaten her own flimsy ego.

Adora feels sick. She hates that this reassurance of her own superiority makes her feel good. She hates that Catra was right about her.

“We’ll just have to work even harder to prove it, won’t we?” Weaver prompts her, cutting through her thoughts.

Swallowing hard, Adora responds with a jerky nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you worry,” says Weaver, patting Adora’s cheek a couple times before returning her hand to her shoulder. “Catra’s meddling and flashy tricks won’t fool the people who really matter.”

“Meddling? Ma’am, I don’t think-”

Adora cuts herself off when she sees Weaver’s eyes narrow and jaw tighten. The grounding hand slipping off her shoulder almost makes her lose her nerve, but she takes a deep breath and works up the courage to continue. She can do this one small thing for Catra. She owes her that much. Treading carefully on this precariously thin ice, she keeps her tone as deferential as possible when she says, “She was as surprised as I was, and she didn’t seem very happy about it.”

Lips twisting in a demeaning smirk, Weaver remarks, “Yes, well, we both know Catra is rather the accomplished liar.”

Brow furrowing, Adora frowns as her eyes fall to the carpet. She doesn’t have long to reflect on these words before Weaver’s touch distracts her again, this time a gentle pat on the head.

“Go on, now,” Weaver tells her, smiling in that condescending way of hers. “I know you have food to attend to.”

Adora walks out of there in a daze, one that doesn’t lift all through dinner. The others notice, they must by the way they keep making attempts to include her in the conversation, but she can never bring herself to truly engage. The guilt she feels for ignoring them is nothing compared to the shame already crushing her. Her mind is spinning, trying to find some way to make this right.

Finally, it lands on a feasible solution. A pretty damn good one, if she doesn’t say so herself.

Quickly finishing her food, Adora excuses herself and takes Swift Wind on a field trip to the craft store.

***

Adora’s nerves are raw for the rest of the night, but they really begin to set in around 10:40. Her knee is jiggling up a storm, her fingers tapping and tugging and scratching as she tries to relax. That might have something to do with the two dozen snickerdoodles she ate in the span of half an hour a while ago, but the sugar is not entirely to blame. Very soon Catra will find her overture of apology. Probably she’ll love it. Probably she won’t call Adora a weirdo or say it’s too little too late. Probably.

“Can you go get your fidget cube or something?” grouses Lonnie, snapping her out of her thoughts. They’re supposedly watching TV but Adora hasn’t absorbed anything since she sat down. And now she’s being annoying again, great. “It’s stressing me out just looking at you, dude.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Adora winces sheepishly. “I’ll stop.” Linking her fingers together and crossing her legs, she does her very best to sit still. It’s fine, for about five seconds. The energy builds and builds and Adora grimaces, her body tensing with the effort of staying still.

“That’s even worse,” Lonnie says flatly, a vague hint of amusement affecting her tone.

Of course she finds this funny. Adora’s used to being the laughingstock of the house, Kyle’s occasional incompetence notwithstanding. Adora’s eyes fall and are just starting to burn when she feels Lonnie shifting closer on the couch. A pair of short but muscular arms encircle her arms and ribs, wrapping her up tightly, and the sudden squeeze expels a little air from Adora’s lungs as she tenses up in shock. But after a couple seconds she melts in Lonnie’s grasp, sighing and letting her head tip to rest against the top of Lonnie’s.

When Lonnie finally lets go Adora misses the warmth and pressure immediately, but the hug has left her relaxed enough to handle it. So she forces a grateful smile and says, “Thank you.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta do it,” says Lonnie, a tiny smirk on her face. There's a genuine warmth behind it, though, one you’d recognize only if you know Lonnie.

The sound of a motorcycle approaching makes Adora tense up again, her eyes going wide, and Lonnie chuckles. Shifting back to her own cushion, she jokes, “Speaking of.”

Smiling feebly in the face of her returned nerves, Adora tells her, “You give good hugs too.”

“Still nothing on Scorpia’s,” remarks Lonnie, eyes on the TV.

“Truth.”

The engine cuts out in the driveway and a moment later they hear Catra come through the door. Adora listens, tracking her movements as she sheds her boots and riding gear. When she finally hears the footsteps on the stairs, Adora clears her throat and jerks her thumb in the direction of their room. “I should…”

Lonnie raises her hands like she’s trying to shield herself from Adora’s words. “You don’t need to explain. I don’t wanna know.”

Giving Lonnie a half-hearted glare on the way by, Adora follows Catra up the stairs. She hopes she’s given her enough time to discover the present and note sitting on the top step of the bunk ladder. Pointing it out would just be awkward, but she wants to get there in time to catch the reaction too. Because despite her nerves, she’s pretty sure it will be a good one.

Tiptoeing down the hall, Adora peeks around the doorframe just in time. She watches with wide eyes, holding her breath as Catra reaches for the picture frame. It ends up being a long breath because Catra just stares at the present for several seconds, studying it without a word.

Afraid of losing her nerve, Adora sucks in a deep breath and pulls her shoulders back, stepping into the open. “I know you can’t hang it anywhere now or Weaver will give you shit, but one day, right?”

When Catra turns her head, Adora almost startles at the sight of tears in her eyes. Rushing into the room, she cups Catra’s shoulder earnestly. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” As soon as she says this, she realizes exactly what the problem is and mentally slaps herself. It’s the note: ‘I don’t like you either.’ God, what was she thinking?

“Oh god, I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, gripping Catra’s sleeve urgently, “I do like you, I promise, it was just a joke.”

Breath catching with a broken laugh and a sniffle, Catra smirks in reply. “You like me? Wow, how embarrassing for you.”

Adora’s jaw goes slack, eyes darting between the note and her face in confusion. “Uh… oh, sorry, is that not…” A single tear is threatening to spill from the corner of Catra’s eye and Adora wipes it away with her thumb on instinct.

“I’m not upset, Adora,” clarifies Catra, eyelids fluttering briefly at the contact. “This is just…” Eyes falling to the framed article in her grasp, she hugs it to her chest. “I love it, thank you.”

Frozen in Catra’s uncharacteristically open and earnest gaze, Adora swallows and shuffles her feet. Pulling her hand back, she scratches at the blush she feels creeping up her neck. “You’re welcome.”

Stepping in, Catra wraps her arms around Adora’s ribcage and tips her head to rest on her shoulder. Adora’s heart jumps and her breath catches, a confusing flood of relief and hormones washing over her. A couple seconds later her brain resumes functioning and she gingerly lifts her arms to return the hug.

“This is the best present anyone’s ever given me,” murmurs Catra. She’s close enough that her tiny puffs of breath brush against Adora’s neck, making it burn.

Chuckling awkwardly, Adora tells her, “Thank Entrapta, not me.”

She feels Catra’s cheek tighten with a smile against her shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

This time, those words make Adora’s heart soar. Arms cinching tighter around Catra, she smiles into her temple. “Yeah, I know.”

Catra goes limp in Adora’s grasp with a tiny high-pitched sigh, and that _sends_ Adora. God, Catra is so fucking cute. Maybe some would find this gross, hugging a girl in a dirty chef’s jacket who smells of dry mud and liquid fat, but Adora wouldn’t trade this for anything. Yet as euphoric as the moment feels, there’s a nagging ache in her chest sapping the joy from her bones. She wishes she could somehow draw Catra inside her own skin so she never has to let go. She burns to know what Catra feels like under that jacket, what needy, adorable sounds she’d make with Adora’s lips on her neck. It’s frustrating, this is _everything_ and yet it’s still not enough.

Swallowing hard, Adora shakes her head. There’s no need to be selfish. Besides, there’s a bright side to all this. Maybe Adora won’t ever have her in the way Lonnie and other girls have, but no one else gets to see this side of Catra. Adora is the only one who gets to have her like this, hold her in her rare moments of softness and vulnerability and truly _know_ her. Adora is Catra’s rock, her safe place, just like Catra is for her. That’s enough, right?

It has to be enough.

Catra yawns and nuzzles into the crook of Adora’s shoulder, banishing all those thoughts. Adora can’t not smile when she does that. Tightening her grip, she murmurs, “Tired, huh?”

Catra nods sleepily. Of course she’s tired, Tuesday is her hell day. Adora doesn’t know how she does it.

Idly twirling a tangled strand of chestnut around her finger, Adora tells her, “We don’t have to keep that study date.” When Catra frowns, brow furrowing, Adora quickly adds, “I already did all my homework after dinner.”

Visibly relaxing at that admission, Catra replies, “I did mine while your cookies cooled.”

Adora grins. “Thanks for that, by the way. They were delicious.”

Catra laughs into Adora’s chest. “Did you seriously eat them all already?”

“You know I have no impulse control,” Adora counters, playfully defensive.

“Oh my god, Adora.” Catra shakes her head but she can’t keep the fondness out of her voice or smile.

A familiar, soothing warmth washes over Adora. She may be weak for Catra, but Catra’s weak for her too. Even if it’s not in the same way.

“Anyway, we can just chill if you want,” Adora suggests as casually as possible. “Lonnie’s got the TV, but…” She nods at their bunk as she trails off, fighting to keep her expression neutral.

Eyes flicking to the bunk and back to Adora, Catra gives a nod of approval. “Yeah,” she mutters, rubbing at her no doubt sweaty cheek, “just let me shower first.”

“No complaints here,” teases Adora.

Catra shoves her and Adora laughs, allowing herself to stumble back and land on Lonnie’s bed. Fishing clean clothes out of the dresser, Catra mutters something about Adora being a smartass on the way out the door, fingering her for good measure. Not in the fun way, though.

No! _Bad_ Adora!

Forcing herself to get up before she gets too comfy, Adora changes into her PJs and settles on her own bed, slumping back against the wall with her feet hanging over the edge. She spends the next few minutes scrolling through various social media apps before she gets sucked into a vortex of cute cat vids. She’s too busy cooing and squeeing to notice the sound of the shower turning off, nor the bathroom door opening. Nothing breaks her hyperfocus until Catra walks back in wearing a tank top and boyshorts, sleepily scratching her head.

Adora.exe has stopped working.

The phone slips from her grasp, the chorus of mewling kittens suddenly drowned out by the blood pounding in her ears. Her mouth has fallen open, she’s sure of it, but she can’t seem to snap it shut.

Catra is so _fucking_ beautiful. In this light the freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks are striking. Her damp, wavy hair cascades down over her shoulders, drawing attention to the cut of her collarbones. Defined lines of lean muscle run just under her caramel skin. When her arms stretch up in a yawn her biceps flex and Adora’s eyes just about bulge out of her head. Thankfully Catra’s too drowsy to notice, and she wanders over and flops down to Adora’s left.

“You dropped this,” she mutters, locking the phone and nudging it off Adora’s lap before replacing it with her head and _oh wow_ okay that’s happening. Catra curls up against Adora’s thigh and even if she’s done it before it’s still the cutest damn thing Adora’s ever seen, cuter than a million mewling kittens.

Adora’s body reboots before her mind, her left hand moving automatically to stroke Catra’s hair. It feels nice and smells amazing, still wet under the top layers. She lets her fingers get tangled in the damp strands, the heat of Catra’s cheek and the soft hums of her approval sparking tiny flames that warm Adora’s insides but do nothing to let her relax.

Slowly Adora’s senses ground her, allowing her a certain calmness as she basks in the intimacy of the moment. Those sparks dampen into smoldering embers in the pit of her stomach, something pleasant and comforting despite the occasional licks of flaring desire that she can mostly ignore. Moving her free hand to Catra’s scalp, she reaches farther with her left and trails her fingers over Catra’s exposed upper arm, watching as they draw invisible patterns over the soft, warm canvas. Noticing goosebumps rising in their wake, she frowns. “You cold?”

“Only a little,” murmurs Catra. Shifting slightly, she winces into Adora’s thigh. “Sore, though.”

Adora hums, continuing to trace the contours of Catra’s triceps. “Want a massage?”

Hesitating slightly, Catra casually replies, “I mean, if you’re offering,” as though she was not fishing for that to begin with. Adora’s autistic, she’s not stupid. Besides, it’s a familiar script. Adora’s got big, strong hands, and she’s more than happy to use them on the girl she loves. (Yes, she knows how that sounds and no, she’s not taking it back.)

Stretching once more, Catra crawls forward to perch on the edge of the bed and pulls her hair forward over one shoulder. Adora settles cross-legged behind her and gets to work.

She starts off gently enough, softly kneading the flesh of Catra’s shoulders and smiling when it procures another one of those cute little sighs. Catra’s slender frame makes this easier on Adora’s hands than it could be, though the abundance of very tight muscle poses its own challenge. Not that Adora doesn’t love challenges. Besides, working through the knots helps settle her nerves too. Calms her body and slows her thoughts to something manageable.

Gradually she begins to push and squeeze harder, rolling her thumbs and digging them into the knots around and under Catra’s shoulder blades. That gets some vaguely pained groans and even a few whimpers out of Catra, but Adora knows from experience not to lighten up unless she asks for it. So she stays the course, trying not to think about leaning forward and kissing the curve of Catra’s neck. Or pulling Catra down on top of her. Or Catra sighing and groaning for entirely other reasons.

Wow, this is going well, isn’t it?

Clearing her throat, Adora glances away in search of a distraction. She finds it in the edge of the picture frame Catra left lying on the dresser, a sight that relaxes her slightly but also afflicts her stomach with a pang of guilt. Grimacing as she turns back to Catra, she says, “I’m sorry too, by the way. About our fight.”

Catra’s shoulders tense up again for a second as she freezes, but then they relax again and she shakes her head. “It’s okay, Adora. I was being a douche.”

“So was I,” says Adora. That makes Catra chuckle, allowing Adora a smile despite her shame. “I _am_ happy for you, you know. You were right, I’m not used to giving up the spotlight.” Snorting inwardly, she mutters, “I thought Ms. Weaver would be disappointed in me, but she blamed it all on Entrapta. And you.”

Catra scoffs. “You’re surprised?”

“I wish I was.” Adora continues rolling her thumbs, staring straight ahead with unfocused eyes. “I know things are unfair, they always have been. I’m sorry, I wish I could do something to fix it.”

Shifting under her touch, Catra quietly demands, “Less talking, more rubbing.”

Happy as ever to follow orders, Adora focuses her full attention on relieving Catra’s physical pain. At least it’s something. Catra’s neck no doubt needs work but Adora finds her hands migrating outward, into the meat of her shoulders. They’re nice to look at and even nicer to touch, soft skin pulled taut over firm muscle. She digs her fingertips into the front and drags them back across ropey muscles and tendons, making them twang. Catra groans again, louder, and Adora shifts uncomfortably as that smoldering heat in her stomach sinks lower. She likes those noises but they are doing _things_ to her.

A knock at the door makes Adora jump, then relax. A distraction actually sounds great right about now. Clearing her throat, she calls, “Come in!”

Lonnie pushes the door open and immediately covers her eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sakes.”

Heat flares in Adora’s cheeks, though she’s not sure why. It’s not like they’re even doing anything. And Lonnie can’t read her mind. Right?

Besides, Lonnie is hardly one to talk.

“Dunno what you’re complaining about,” remarks Adora. “I’ve walked in on a lot worse.”

Suddenly Adora is the least flushed person in the room. Lonnie averts her eyes with a tiny cough and Catra whistles lowly, ducking her tomato of a face into her chest. “Vicious.”

“I learned from the best,” Adora sasses her.

“Hey, at least I had the decency to knock,” Lonnie shoots back, though she still can’t quite look her in the eyes.

“And I have apologized,” Adora reminds her emphatically. “Trust me, no one was more traumatized than me.”

“I bet,” huffs Lonnie, dropping down onto her bed. “Prude like you.”

Adora gasps, eyebrows knitting in offense. “I am not a prude!”

“Adora, please.” Lonnie grins, eye contact suddenly unrelenting. The way she can switch on a dime like that with even the slightest power swing never fails to unnerve Adora. “How many girls have you even kissed?”

“That’s… that’s private,” mutters Adora, eyes falling to her lap. It’s not like she’s never had any opportunities, it’s just none of them felt right. Plus she’s never really sure if girls want her to kiss them and she doesn’t want to humiliate herself if she’s wrong or feel like she’s forcing herself on someone. If a cute girl kissed Adora, she’d probably kiss her back. Unfortunately, people seem to think she’s the kind of person who should be initiating the kissing. Trust, Adora is the least qualified person to initiate anything of the sort.

“Private as in zero,” chuckles Lonnie, and Adora’s shoulders slump.

“Leave her alone, Lon,” Catra intervenes. Turning slightly to side eye Adora and flash her a grin, she tells Lonnie, “Let the noble knight save herself for her one true love. It’s her loss, anyway.”

“How romantic,” deadpans Lonnie. Then she turns around to change into her PJs, effectively ending the argument and securing the last word for herself as Adora and Catra avert their eyes out of respect.

Turning so one knee comes up to rest on the mattress, Catra twitches her mouth regretfully. “Alright, I should probably get some sleep.”

Adora’s stomach drops, the damp patch on her thigh suddenly unbearably cold. Adora doesn’t want Catra to leave yet, or at all, but it’s not like she can ask her to stay in her bunk. They used to sleep together when they were kids sometimes, particularly the year they were in Weaver’s class and Catra was on high alert 24/7, but they haven’t in years, not unless you count accidental naps on the couch. And it’s not like Adora can openly admit how much she aches to be held, how much she misses the weight of Catra sprawled atop her, anchoring her in the night. She’s supposed to be stronger than that.

Thankfully, Adora has a legitimate excuse to delay the inevitable. “But I haven’t done your neck yet.”

Catra hesitates, indecision clear on her face. Finally she shakes her head and mutters, “Ugh, okay, fine. Five more minutes.”

“As if you don’t like it,” Adora teases her as she turns back around.

“I’m seriously gonna puke, you two,” Lonnie remarks over her shoulder, and Adora catches a quick glimpse of her muscled back before remembering to look away, her cheeks dusting red once again.

“If you don’t like it, the couch is always an option,” Catra snipes across the room.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Room all to yourselves.”

“It would be great,” Catra says flatly. “No more loudmouth getting up in my grill.”

Lonnie snickers, turning around as she finishes pulling her shirt on. “You liked it when I was up in-”

“NOPE NOPE NOPE!” shouts Adora, hands slapping over her ears. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

Unfortunately they don’t take the hint and Adora’s hands aren’t enough to block out the frankly disturbing argument.

“So did you, Lonnie,” retorts Catra. “Don’t go pretending you’re some stone top.” Rolling her eyes back in her head, she moans, “‘ _Oh_ , harder Catra!’”

Lonnie steps closer, fists clenching at her sides. “You wanna fuckin’ die?”

“Try me, pillow princess.”

“Oh my god, stop!” shouts Adora, one arm looping around Catra’s chest to hold her back. Taking a turn to glare at each of them, she demands, “Does everything have to be a pissing contest with you two?”

“Yes!” they answer in unison before turning to glare at each other once again.

“Okay, well I’m officially calling this a draw,” declares Adora. “Sit down and shut up, both of you.”

Maybe in normal circumstances Catra would snap back at her, tell her not to boss her around, but she seems to understand she’s crossed a line. They both do. The tension slowly leaves Lonnie’s jaw and she eventually shuffles back to her side of the room, clearly embarrassed. Adora meanwhile resumes massaging Catra’s neck, harder than she needs to or could possibly be comfortable. Catra grimaces but doesn’t complain, accepting the punishment with dignity.

Turning around mid-retreat, Lonnie adds, “For the record, I’m not a pillow princess.”

That just makes Adora roll her eyes. This obsession with labels that don’t even make sense for cis-women is beyond her. What even is a top? Don’t girls usually both touch each other? It makes sense that you would. Adora doesn’t think it would be much fun to only do one or the other. In fact, she very much harbors a fantasy of both at once, lying next to Catra with sweaty foreheads pressed together, gasping into each other’s mouths…

Uh, anyway, Adora thinks it would be a shame not to do something fun because people care so much about some dumb labels that make no sense. She hopes Catra would let her touch her and not be weird and defensive about it. Not that she’s ever going to touch Catra but like, if she did. If _they_ did.

A frustrated sigh expels itself from her lungs as she drags a hand down her face. “Thank you for that incredibly useful clarification, Lonnie,” she says flatly. “I really needed to know that.”

Shoulders hunching slightly, Lonnie mutters, “Scorpia’s bigger. People think-”

“No one in their right mind thinks you bottom for Scorpia, Lon,” Catra assures her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That gets a sheepish little smile out of Lonnie before she turns for her bed, and Catra’s shoulders relax a little under Adora’s hands. They relax even further when Adora gives up her own irritation and softens her touch.

Well, Adora is still irritated, but not at Catra or Lonnie. It’s just… the way they act around each other, it gives Adora that far too familiar feeling of being left out. Maybe it’s weird, feeling left out of a fight, but it’s not that, not really. Adora will never understand how Catra and Lonnie can be at each other’s throats one second and all buddy buddy the next, without having to go through all these apologetic overtures like she does with Catra. She doesn’t envy the fights, but she envies the passion of their connection, the strength it must have to be so resilient. Plus, she just hates not understanding. It happens to her far too often.

Resolving to make the most of what she does have, Adora refocuses on the task at hand. She digs her fingertips in a little harder at the sides of Catra’s neck, watching and listening for an indication of its effectiveness. Catra winces a little but otherwise barely reacts, jaw clenching in a clear effort to hold in the noises she wasn’t bothering to hide before. Adora knows why, but it’s still a little disappointing. She likes hearing what a good job she’s doing.

A few minutes later Catra shifts under Adora’s hands, rolling her neck. Apparently satisfied, she tells Adora, “Okay, sleepy time.”

“Okay,” Adora says feebly, knowing she’s out of excuses. All good things must end, isn’t that what they say?

Catra seems hesitant as well, her gaze lingering on Adora a moment before flashing to Lonnie and back. Her mouth opens then snaps shut before her shoulders droop and she nods with finality.

“Okay, g’night,” she mutters, giving Adora a quick pat on the knee as she gets up. She ducks under the edge of her own bed and crosses the room to turn off the lights.

“Night,” Adora whispers in return as Catra climbs up the ladder, the bed probably creaking too much for Catra to hear her. Not that it matters.

Slipping under the covers, Adora curls up facing the wall and pulls the blanket up over her head. As the room goes silent but for several sets of breathing, she quietly lifts her hands to her face and breathes in the scent of Catra’s skin. Even cold and alone, it makes her feel just a little less lonely, reminds her of how close they just were. It may be the closest she’ll ever be to another human being, but that makes it all the more important to cherish.

Nuzzling the fragrant skin, Adora lets her eyes flutter shut and pretends it’s Catra’s shoulder pressed against her face. Pretends a warm pair of arms are holding her tightly, keeping her safe from outside threats and her own tumultuous thoughts alike. Her throat tightens painfully and she swallows the sob trying to build in it, eyelids scrunching tighter. A tear rolls over the bridge of her nose and down to her temple, seeping into the pillow.

She doesn’t make a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, the build up is over. Next chapter is where shit really starts to hit the fan as we get into the main event/conflict of the story. Hold on to your hats.
> 
> Thanks to [Malachi Walker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalachiWalker/pseuds/MalachiWalker) for giving this chapter a beta read. I don't usually do those for this story but this chapter was giving me a hell of a time and her feedback was stellar as usual. If you somehow are unfamiliar with her work, go check out [Rhythm & Blues](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1519079) and the rest of her work.


	9. Gay Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Horde ravages Thaymor despite Adora’s misgivings. Adora longs for what she cannot have and takes her frustrations out on herself. Catra jumps to Adora’s defense and lands herself in hot water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been having a weird time with writer's block and mental health stuff as of late, and this is kind of a strange chapter structurally so it wasn't easy to write. I hope it's not hard to read though, because this is another chapter with actual football in it. As with chapter 1, it's mostly about what's going on between the plays and I've done my best to make the gameplay easy to follow without making it stale or over-explainy. There's some helpful information below for those who don't know anything about football.
> 
> Next chapter we're back to non-gameplay stuff: Catra's perspective of this chapter's climax and the ensuing consequences. In the meantime please enjoy Adora managing to be both pretentious and insecure, as she does so very well. There's also a couple of meme references and several hat tips to funny moments in canon, so it should be a good time even if this chapter is a hot mess (just like its protagonist).
> 
> Glossary: “the red zone” refers to the area between a team’s goal line and twenty yard line, the last twenty yards they can defend before a touchdown is scored against them.
> 
> Very basic football gameplay that will be useful: a team has four plays (a.k.a. downs) to move the ball ten yards forward. If they succeed they get a new first down (i.e. a fresh set of four plays) and if they fail the other team gets a turn playing offense. Usually if teams are too far away to kick a field goal, they will punt (kick the ball) on the fourth down to get the ball as far away from their goal as possible, voluntarily sacrificing possession of the ball for a better defensive position. If they’re very close to getting that ten yards they will sometimes risk trying to push the ball forward to get a first down instead of punting.

“Good evening football fans, and welcome to the Halloween SPOOKtacular!” calls the PA announcer. “Tonight your Thaymor Rams play host to the Fright Zone Horde in the final game of the season. It’s the last game for your seniors, so make some noooooiiiiise!”

The packed bleachers explode with cheers and horn blasts, stomping feet echoing around the field. As the bedlam dies down, Adora leans in towards Scorpia and remarks under her breath, “They’re sure rowdy for a team that’s 2-7.”

As she says it, it occurs to her that probably half of Thaymor is here because there’s not much else to do in a backwater town on a Friday night. Other than maybe get drunk or high and dare each other to roam around the supposedly haunted woods between here and the city. That’s the kind of thing normal teenagers do, right?

Feeling her co-captain’s eyes on her, Adora turns her head to find Scorpia peering down at her curiously. “Some people like football just for fun, you know,” says Scorpia.

“Fun?” scoffs Adora. “I don’t know her.”

Okay, it’s not that football isn’t fun for Adora. She enjoys it, at least when the team is doing well and she isn’t fucking up. But how can anyone play a game and not care if they suck?

To be fair, it’s not the Rams’ fault that they suck. In addition to the small pool of players to pick from, their program is severely underfunded. Thaymor High doesn’t even have a proper football field, just a multipurpose field with combo soccer goals/field goal uprights and rusty bleachers on wheels. Fright Zone High doesn’t have a fancy stadium like Bright Moon does but at least they have permanent stands and uprights, and a fieldhouse so they don’t have to change inside the school like they do at Thaymor. That shit reminds Adora of middle school.

“Ah, that’s our cue,” says Scorpia, nudging Adora’s arm and pointing across the field at the pair of players crossing the sideline on the Thaymor side.

As she and Adora follow suit, the announcer continues, “Meeting at center field for the coin toss are Rams captains number thirty-nine Reed Turner and number forty-eight Angus Brown, and Horde captains number twelve Adora Grayson and number seventy-nine Scorpia Say… Say-modge-low-icks.”

Scorpia snorts as they continue their approach. Her last name is pronounced ‘sa-moy-wo-vitch’ but no announcer at an away game has ever managed to say it correctly.

“Wow, he didn’t even get one syllable right,” remarks Adora. “Is that a new record?”

Scorpia shakes her head. “Believe it or not, I’ve heard worse.”

Adora frowns. “How long would it take him to Google that shit? Saying people’s names is kind of his job.”

“But what’s the fun in that?” mutters Scorpia. Adora squints curiously, trying to gauge Scorpia’s expression past her facemask. Rolling her eyes with an ironic chuckle, Scorpia explains, “People get a kick out of butchering Polish names. It’s a hot European pastime.”

“We’re not in Europe,” says Adora.

“Thank god.” As they arrive at center field, Scorpia’s tight lips suddenly split in a grin as her voice and expression turn cheery. “Hey, guys!” she greets the captains with a wave. “Lovely day for a game, eh?”

All familiar foes, the four of them exchange pleasantries and shake hands. Well, everyone but Adora exchanges pleasantries. Adora can only bring herself to nod mutely in the face of the bane of her existence. Reed Turner is at least five foot eight, broad-shouldered, and has these magnetic, sparkling blue eyes that make Adora’s look a dull gray in comparison. Adora has never been able to look her in the eye without blushing and stuttering like a damn idiot. And unfortunately, since Thaymor’s one of the closer schools geographically within their regional league, they play each other twice a year. Adora’s kind of relieved this is the last chance she’ll have to be a gay disaster in front of the second prettiest girl she’s ever met.

Stepping in, the ref says, “Okay, you all know the drill. Fright Zone, make your call.”

Clearing her throat, Adora manages to say, “Tails.”

He tosses the coin high in the air and steps back, letting it land on the grass. Peering over to check, he announces, “Tails it is. Ball or goal?”

“We’ll receive,” says Scorpia.

Turning to Thaymor, he asks, “Which goal do you want to defend?”

“We’ll start moving this way,” says Reed, pointing to her right.

“Okay, get your teams on the field in the next two minutes,” he concludes before making the appropriate hand and foot signals to indicate the decisions made at center field.

By the time Adora and Scorpia get back, Huntara’s gathered the kickoff return team and is giving them a last minute hype up. Catra comes out of the huddle jumping, driving her knees high then bouncing on her toes.

“Excited?” asks Adora, eyebrow cocked high.

“Hell yeah,” says Catra. “I’m gonna ram that ball down their throats.”

Adora smirks. “I see what you did there.”

Catra makes good on her word, returning the kickoff for a touchdown and cementing her place in the state record books: first ever high school player to return a kickoff or punt for a touchdown in every game of the regular season. Adora wouldn’t have known that little piece of trivia if Entrapta hadn’t pointed it out, to be honest, but she’s not gonna tell Catra that.

When Catra skips back to the sideline with the ball tucked under her arm and a massive grin on her face, Adora greets her with a bear hug.

“Yes!” She can feel herself beaming as she leans back a little, lifting Catra’s feet off the ground. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I’m proud of me too.” Smirking down at Adora, she whacks her chest playfully. “Now put me down, you dummy.”

Adora obeys but doesn’t entirely relinquish her grip. Her hands slide off Catra’s back to rest on her hips as she places her on her feet, giving enough separation for her to really soak in that smile. Even Adora doesn’t get to see Catra’s smiles that often, not the genuine kind. But when she does see them, sees Catra looking truly happy for a change… god, Catra’s smiles could end wars.

But Catra’s smile is slipping a little as they continue to hold each other’s gaze. Her eyes turn curious, briefly dip down before coming back up. Her mouth opens as if to say something but then snaps shut. Incapable of speech herself, Adora stares back at Catra and screams at her telepathically to say what she’s thinking, just on the off chance…

“Ninety-six, the ball.”

And just like that, the moment shatters. Adora’s shoulders sag, weighted down by disappointment and unanswered questions. Fighting the urge to glare (or scream and throw things), Adora turns to the encroaching official and plasters on the most charming smile she can manage. “Come on, ref, she just set a record. Let her keep it.”

Eyes narrowing irritably, he asks, “Do you want to pay Thaymor for the ball, captain?”

“I absolutely will if they ask me to,” declares Adora.

“Your funeral, then.” Shaking his head, he jogs off to join the other officials as they set up for Kyle to kick the extra point.

An elbow nudging Adora’s ribs pulls her attention back to Catra’s smile, a sheepish one this time. “Thanks, Adora.”

Now it’s Adora’s turn to smile. “Least I could do.”

“Wildcat!” Scorpia bounds toward them, arms thrown wide open for a crushing embrace. Catra tenses up, and Scorpia must notice because at the last second she slams on the brakes, stopping a foot away. Though she looks a little sheepish, her enthusiasm doesn’t dampen even one iota as she lifts her hand for a high five. “That was awesome! That spin to break the tackle!”

Even Catra’s smuggest smirk can’t hide the blush infiltrating her cheeks. “Meh, all in a day's work,” she says, reaching up to slap Scorpia’s hand. The casualness of her words is severely undermined by how tightly she clings to that ball, but Adora doesn’t tease her for it. Let the girl have her moment.

Adora gives them a little space as they continue to chat, turning to watch Kyle do his thing, but in her peripheral vision she sees Catra step in and tuck herself under Scorpia’s arm. Scorpia’s face lights up as she wraps both around Catra in a gentle hug, and Catra’s eyes fall shut with a soft smile, her face relaxing completely as she lingers in the embrace.

Suddenly, Adora can’t bear to look any longer. Conflicting emotions clash in her gut as she stares blankly out at the field, seeing nothing.

It’s nice to see Scorpia and Catra getting along again, that terrible awkward tension finally gone. And Adora loves seeing Catra happy, regardless of circumstances. But watching Catra now, it’s impossible to forget she’s still hung up on Scorpia, and that hurts. Adora had wondered about Catra’s feelings for Scorpia before, but they were made indisputably clear at the party. You’d have to be blind to miss how upset Catra got when Scorpia showed up with Lonnie, let alone when she saw them kissing and literally ran out of the room. And she only came back after Scorpia went out to comfort her. Scorpia assured Adora and Lonnie that she could handle it, and she was right.

Adora wasn’t the best person for Catra then, and she never will be.

“Kickoff team, come on!” Huntara shouts from nearby, shocking Adora out of her thoughts. “Diaz, Samojłowicz, get your rears in gear!”

“Hey, Adora!” calls Catra. Adora blinks over just in time to catch the ball coming for her chest. Looking up as she cradles it instinctively, she finds Catra grinning once again. But there’s a softness in her eyes too, one that turns Adora’s aching stomach to mush. “Take care of that for me, will ya?”

Adora nods mutely and hugs the ball tighter as she watches Catra trot onto the field. Catra was right about her being a noble knight, she would guard this ball with her very life. But she’s no Prince Charming. And that is her burden to bear.

***

The game is a blowout, to put it kindly. The outcome is never in doubt from the opening kickoff. The Rams have managed to win a couple games this year but as usual they've languished near the bottom of the standings all season. They have maybe five capable players on defense, and Adora preys expertly on their many weak links.

It’s 27-3 by halftime, but the bleachers are still packed with Fright Zone and Thaymor fans alike. Once again, Adora can’t help being impressed by Thaymor’s school spirit. If the Horde was ever losing this bad they’d lose half the crowd.

As the PA announcer proclaims the start of the costume contest, prompting a louder round of cheers, Catra sidles up to Adora. Nudging her ribs, Catra cracks, “Too bad DT’s in uniform today, they’d definitely win.”

Adora rolls her eyes at the reminder of her recent humiliation. A couple days ago, on actual Halloween, the cheerleading captain waltzed into homeroom wearing eye black and Adora’s varsity jacket, their blonde hair in a poof at least 3 inches above their forehead. There was no doubt who was to blame for the costume, even before Catra started cackling at Adora’s horror and embarrassment. DT and Catra have a history of getting into trouble together and trolling the entire world, whenever they’re not biting each other’s heads off and/or flirting up a storm.

Well, it’s mostly DT flirting and Catra not complaining, but it still makes Adora’s skin crawl every time she witnesses it. She has plenty of reasons not to like DT, and on Wednesday they certainly added to that list.

_DT preened under Catra’s approving laughter, chest puffing out further in an attempt to mimic Adora’s mannerisms. Maybe they didn’t think it was obvious enough who they were dressed as, or maybe they just wanted more attention (probably the latter), because they broke character pretty quickly. Throwing a hand to their chest, they declared in falsetto, “Fear not, mere mortals! It is I, Adora Grayson! Captain of the Horde, savior of the known universe!”_

_Adora squirmed in her seat, trying and failing to will away the blush in her cheeks. Her voice is_ not _that high, and she doesn’t act like that. Does she?_

_Apparently Catra didn’t agree. Pretending to bow down as DT sauntered over, she crowed, “DT! That was Oscar-worthy!”_

_“Thank you, kitten,” purred DT, grinning and hugging the football under their arm tighter to their ribs. They either didn’t notice the way Catra stiffened or ignored it completely. Poking the exaggerated hairstyle, they went back into that whiny Adora voice as they asked, “Is the hair poof high enough?”_

_“Could be higher,” Catra answered tersely. “And do_ not _call-”_

 _“Oh my_ god, _I know,” groused DT, sinking into their natural deeper tone. “Ruin all my fun.” But they regained a bit of their mojo as they focused on Adora, sticking their tongue out and blowing a raspberry at her._

They were definitely wrong about Catra ruining all their fun. In Math class that afternoon, Adora answered a question incorrectly and DT huffed out in a caveman grumble, “Football good, math bad.”

The class roared with laughter and Adora almost cried in front of everyone. DT definitely noticed her distress, watching her with a smug smirk and delighted eyes. Maybe they don’t know about her learning disabilities, maybe it was just a dumb jock joke, but Adora had half a mind to punch that smirk right off their face. But that would have only proven the joke true and reinforced the whispers among the senior class that Adora’s a total spaz, so she forced herself to laugh along with the joke, prove to DT and everyone else that she could take it. She’s supposed to be strong enough, confident enough to withstand a little teasing.

Still, Adora can’t help wishing Catra wasn’t in AP Math so she would’ve been around to put DT in their place. Catra doesn’t usually stand for anyone making fun of Adora… not unless they’re mocking her ego, apparently.

Catra doesn’t really think Adora’s that full of herself, does she?

“It wasn’t that funny,” grumbles Adora.

“Oh come on, Adora, it was hilarious!” insists Catra, slinging an arm around her neck. “You should’ve seen your face! You were like, ‘Oh, no! Betrayal!’” She presses the back of her hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon.

Adora huffs, shoving Catra away, but she can’t help smiling a little at her antics. Shaking her head, she mutters, “I still can’t believe you stole my jacket.”

“Borrowed, without permission,” Catra corrects her. “And it was for a good cause.”

“What,” snorts Adora, “your own amusement?”

“Precisely.” Catra grins brightly and Adora can’t find it in herself to be mad anymore. Unfortunately, it’s not quite so easy to soothe the hurt feelings festering under her smile.

Instead of walking all the way back to their changeroom for halftime, the Horde regroups behind the bleachers on their side of the field to talk things over. There’s not much to discuss. They’re executing their plan brilliantly, minus the one field goal allowed, and Sergeant Cobalt encourages them to keep it up.

The implied order to show no mercy makes Adora squirm with guilt and discomfort, but she understands the need for it. They’re tied with Bright Moon in the standings and the tiebreaker is point differential, so they need to run up the score. It’s not going to help their reputation of being an unsportsmanlike team one bit, but it’s not like the Royals are going to hold back over that same concern. They’re a rich kid team, not a bunch of ruffians from the wrong side of the tracks. No one will accuse them of being unsportsmanlike.

Unfortunately, things start to unravel the Horde’s first possession of the quarter. ‘Things’ being Adora, in particular.

It all starts when Thaymor surprises them with a blitz of attackers on the first play, overwhelming their offensive linemen. Adora sees it coming immediately off the snap and looks around for someone to dump the ball off to before she gets sacked, but she isn’t fast enough. She hears the footsteps at the last second and turtles, protecting the ball as a body hits her from behind. She groans as she hits the ground, despite only her pride being hurt. They lost at least five yards on the play, not a great way to start the half.

The pressure eases off her back and Adora sighs, turning over. A pair of sparkling sapphire eyes stares down at her, freezing her on the spot. As she registers that Reed Turner is kneeling over her, straddling her, her mouth and eyes slip wide open. Suddenly, Adora’s in less of a hurry to get up.

Reed cocks an eyebrow, looking half teasing and half concerned as she asks, “You okay there, Grayson?”

“Uh… uh huh,” mutters Adora, nodding and averting her eyes as she feels a blush coming on.

“Articulate as always,” chuckles Reed, her expression unreadable. Standing up, she offers a hand that Adora grudgingly takes, hauling the quarterback to her feet with ease. Their eyes lock again mid pull and Adora absently wonders how far this girl could throw her, given the chance.

Adora immediately catches and scolds herself, squeezing her fists and eyes shut in an attempt to focus. That resolve lasts one whole second, until Reed slaps her on the ass as she trots off to her own huddle. Adora’s left staring after her slack-jawed, trying not to let her brain melt.

Rattled by both the sack and the slap, Adora stutters out the next play call in the huddle and proceeds to overthrow Catra by a mile. Thankfully there’s a stoppage in play afterwards due to an injury on the field, giving her a chance to grab some water and try to get her head on straight. So to speak.

If hot girls could just stop slapping Adora’s ass in the middle of games, maybe she could actually function. She knows it’s a thing in football and it’s her problem she can’t react like a normal human being, but still. Is the fucking universe out to get her?

“Keep it in your pants, Adora.”

Catra’s voice shocks Adora out of her thoughts and she jumps, head whipping around. Catra’s standing there with her hands on her hips, clearly disappointed and extremely annoyed. Adora swallows dryly as Catra reaches out, smacking her on the side of the helmet. “Come on, get your head in the game.”

“I’m fine,” says Adora, but she can’t look her in the eye. Knowing she’s been caught with her mind in the gutter fills her with shame, and not just for the usual reasons. Catra being the one to call her on it, when Catra’s the person she really wants… it almost feels like she’s been caught cheating on Catra. Which is stupid because she and Catra are _not_ together, that’s for damn sure.

Catra scoffs. “You look like a tomato. God, if the scouts find out all it takes to incapacitate you is a pretty girl touching your butt we’re all doomed.”

Pinching her forehead through her mask, Adora groans, “Catra, please.”

“I mean I know you’re a virgin, but I didn’t think you were such a desperate one.”

A cut off growl bursts through Adora’s lips and she snaps, “Unless you’re offering to help with that, shut the fuck up.”

Oh _no_.

Adora is frozen stiff, eyes bulging as she watches Catra react to the worst thing she could have possibly said. Poor impulse control or not, that should never have come out of her mouth. Catra, for her part, appears equally shocked by Adora’s lapse in judgment (and general decency). It takes several long, agonizing seconds for her to respond.

“Help?” she finally says, weight rocking back onto her heels. Her gloved hands wind in the hem of her jersey as her eyes flick away and then back to Adora. “You mean like set you up with someone?”

Adora should be relieved. She should. Crisis averted, right? But maybe she didn’t want to avert it after all. Maybe that needed to come out. Fact is, either Catra’s willfully misinterpreting Adora’s words or she finds the concept of being with Adora so disgusting and bizarre that the actual meaning is incomprehensible. Either way, Adora’s stomach is left aching, the cold rush of rejection washing over her brain and down her spine.

“Forget it,” she mutters, shaking her head tersely. “Let’s just play football.”

When they get back out there for the third down, the plan is to throw a long pass. Sixteen yards is a lot to make up in one running play. But the intended receiver is covered. Even Catra is being guarded decently on the play, but Adora can barely bring herself to look at her anyway. When she spots a gap opening in the defensive line, Adora surprises herself by darting through and taking off.

Adora doesn’t run the ball a lot herself. She doesn’t usually need to, and Grizzlor rarely calls for Adora to pull a quarterback sneak on purpose. She’s a gifted athlete, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s 5’5 and 140 pounds soaking wet, and too valuable an asset to risk getting injured. That doesn’t stop Catra and other players from giving Adora shit about being a sissy, like it’s her fault she needs to stay healthy. But they’re wrong. Adora is full to the brim with aggression, aggression that is currently boiling over. Besides, it’s her fault they’re 3rd and 16. She needs to fix it herself.

Reed comes flying at Adora from the side and Adora braces herself, leaning into the contact and bouncing off the girl before she can wrap her up. Spinning away, Adora scans the field. Thankfully her receivers running long has opened up a bit of space for her. She jukes around another linebacker, the only other player in the vicinity, and keeps running.

The third linebacker moved downfield initially but must have picked up on the change of plan pretty quickly, because he’s now charging Adora’s way. He’s right around the 1st down marker and closing in on her, so she needs to get by him - she can’t just slide on the ground to avoid the tackle, as quarterbacks often do. He’s big but not that quick, so she fakes to her right with her eyes and the ball before sidestepping to the left. Unfortunately he doesn’t take the bait, slamming right into her. Adora struggles in his grip, pushing forward determinedly to pick up as many inches as possible before he finally wrestles her to the grass.

Several whistles blow nearby as Adora lands on her back, their urgent tweets demanding immediate disengagement. The linebacker ignores them, lightly shoving off of Adora as he stands with a scowl. As he starts to walk away, Lonnie steps into his path and bumps him slightly on the way by. 

“Hey, watch yourself, asshole,” she warns him, despite hardly being of an intimidating stature herself. Turning to Adora, she offers a hand up.

Adora scowls and gets up on her own. It’s nothing personal against Lonnie, but Adora doesn’t need a bodyguard. And it’s not like she deserves the help when she failed to get the first down.

As Adora jogs back to the sideline, she hears Huntara bark, “Okay, short yardage team, let’s go!”

“No,” orders Cobalt, stepping in. “Punt it.”

Huntara’s meaty fists land on her hips, an annoyed quirk to her lips. “Sarge, you know we can get that first down,” she argues.

“And if we don’t, we’re handing them the ball in our red zone,” he counters. “If we give up a touchdown to the Rams I’m firing every one of you and myself. Punt the ball.”

Adora fumes quietly under her helmet as she stands on the sidelines watching the ensuing play. At herself for fucking up so badly. At Cobalt for robbing her of a chance to fix it. At Catra for not loving her back. At herself for thinking about this shit instead of football, again. She’s a terrible quarterback and an even worse person.

“Hey.” Lonnie’s voice breaks Adora’s latest spiral, a warm and heavy arm wrapping around her shoulders. “You okay?”

Adora nods. It’s not like she can tell Lonnie what she’s actually thinking. They don’t have time to unpack all that.

“God, what’s that guy’s problem?” grouses Lonnie.

“I mean, we’re embarrassing them in front of their own fans,” Adora reasons. “I’d be pissed too.”

“Still no need for that kind of shit. That should’ve been a penalty.”

Adora shrugs noncommittally, though she agrees with Lonnie if she’s being honest.

A new round of whistles sound out on the field as the Thaymor punt returner is brought down. While the Horde’s defense huddles up, Catra runs off the field and straight to her roommates.

“What the hell, Adora?” she demands, ripping off her own helmet as she crosses the sideline. Her brow is pinched in what looks to be a mix of confusion and anger. “What was that? Why didn’t you just slide?”

“Because I knew I didn’t have the first down,” Adora says flatly. “And despite popular belief, I’m not a sissy quarterback.”

Catra falters, her face softening slightly. “Adora, I’m just teasing when I say things like that,” she assures her. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Adora blinks impassively. “Maybe I needed to prove it to myself.”

“Prove it to yourself in a playoff game, then,” says Catra. “There’s no need to play hero in a blowout.”

Lonnie’s arm tugs Adora tighter into her side, giving her a small fraternal shake. “Don’t sweat it, Adora. We all know you’re a tough cracker.”

Squinting at her, Adora asks, “Don’t you mean tough cookie?”

“Naw,” Lonnie replies slyly, patting her on the shoulder, “I mean tough cracker.”

Adora can’t help chuckling at that. Even in her worst moods, she appreciates a good dad joke. “Well played.”

“I thought so.” Clapping the top of Adora’s helmet hard enough to make her startle and wince, Lonnie adds, “Now cheer up. We’ve got tons of possessions to go. Lots of chances to humiliate that fucker.”

Lonnie is right, of course. Their next two possessions end in touchdowns, bringing the score to 41-3. Humiliating doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The third quarter is nearly over when the Horde gets the ball once again. Adora marches them methodically down the field, not opting for any long passes. At this point they need to practice their plays more than they need to run up the score, no matter what Cobalt says. She really is trying to be sportsmanlike. And she’s minding her own fucking business when it happens again.

It’s that same fucking linebacker. It’s not even a blitz, he seems to decide to go after Adora on his own. The guy comes out of nowhere, breaking through a gap in the offensive line while Adora’s busy scoping out Catra near the sideline, and she barely even sees him before he’s grabbed her by the jersey. Lifting her off her feet, he picks her up and stuffs her headfirst into the ground.

Adora doesn’t exactly have time to react. Clinging to the ball with her right arm, she instinctively extends her left to break the fall. Bad idea. When her hand hits the ground it gets caught at an awkward angle under her body as she falls on top of it. Pain shoots up Adora’s arm and she cries out, grabbing her jammed wrist.

“Just stay down, Horde scum!” the linebacker growls, standing over her.

Panting and clutching her wrist, Adora stares up at him through blurry eyes, his flushed face briefly coming into focus between waves of tears. The pain and shame in his eyes is something she knows well, and can’t blame him for at all. He showed her exactly as much mercy as her team has shown his, and she’s the engine behind the trainwreck.

This is exactly what Adora was trying to tell Catra on Tuesday. Win or lose, it always comes back to the quarterback.

Their staring showdown is snapped when a body suddenly hits the guy from behind, sending him sprawling on his stomach. All Adora sees is a blur of green and white and a bushy mass of brown hair.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” shouts Catra.

Wincing, Adora rolls onto her side in an attempt to follow the action. Catra is holding the guy down with a knee in his back, pretty impressive given he’s twice her size. Adora can’t help staring, mouth slipping open behind her mask as she watches Catra put him in a chokehold. “Don’t fucking touch her, you piece of shit!”

Oh, _wow_. That’s… that’s something.

The linebacker tries to get up under Catra’s weight but she kicks the back of his knee, forcing him back down, and that especially vicious action snaps Adora out of her trance. This is bad.

“Catra!” she shouts, trying and failing to keep her voice from cracking with tears. “Let him go!”

Rogelio jumps in, ripping Catra off the guy and holding her back while she screams at him to get off of her. Adora sees Lonnie jump into the fray too, grabbing Catra by the shoulders and trying to talk her down. Unable to hear over the roar of the crowd and the blood rushing in her ears, Adora falls onto her back again and lets her eyes slip shut with a whimper.

The world goes in and out of focus for what could be five seconds or fifty. Adora feels people kneeling down near her, hears concerned voices, but nothing breaks through her haze of agony until she hears the sharp tweets of the ref’s whistle. She cranes her neck to find him, just in time to catch his verdict. He signals roughing the passer on the defense and a personal foul on the offense, jerking his thumb up and over his shoulder after the latter to signal an ejection.

Great, so now they’ve lost both Adora _and_ Catra. Fucking peachy.

Catra doesn’t even argue with the ref throwing her out, just walks calmly to Adora’s side and crouches beside her. “Hey, Adora?” She squints apprehensively, peering down into Adora’s hazy eyes. “Adora!” When Adora acknowledges her with a dazed nod, she sighs in relief and pats her on the chest pad. “You okay?”

Adora shakes her head, not daring to speak again. She can barely keep herself from crying as it is, little whimpers forcing their way past her lips.

“Don’t worry, we’re gonna take care of you, okay?” When Adora manages another nod, Catra slips one hand under her shoulders and grasps her arm with the other. “Think you can sit up?”

Once Adora’s up on her butt, she blinks her vision clear and takes in a few more details. The team’s trainer is kneeling on her other side, a few other Horde players looking on in concern. An incoming green jersey catches her eye and she blinks up as the encroaching Ram stops in front of her.

Crouching down, Reed touches the top of Adora’s helmet with a grimace. “Sorry, Adora. That wasn’t cool,” she says. Adora appreciates the sentiment but is even less capable than normal of forming a sentence, so she just nods. Looking on in concern, the Thaymor captain offers, “You need help?”

“I’ve got her,” Catra hisses, grip tightening on Adora’s shoulders.

Reed raises her hands innocently, eyebrows arching as her eyes dart between them. “Okay, okay. Didn’t realize, my bad.”

Adora is too dazed to comprehend what Reed is talking about, but she could swear she hears Catra growl as Reed taps her on the helmet once more before walking away.

Catra and the trainer help Adora to her feet and she walks off the field under her own power, still holding her wrist. She’s acutely aware of Catra’s fingertips on the small of her back the whole time, the touch comforting in both its gentleness and firmness. Vaguely, she registers the audience clapping.

She wishes they wouldn’t. She hasn’t done anything worth applauding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm Jo and I like sports. Honestly though we're back to the regular fare next chapter, with some _quality _hurt/comfort if I do say so myself. ;)__


	10. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra shows her teeth and stakes a claim. Adora is a difficult patient and Catra relishes a rare chance to be her hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Catra! (irl, I know we already had it in the story lol)
> 
> Okay so full disclosure, this chapter and the next one were originally supposed to be one larger chapter. There’s extra stuff now that wasn’t in the original outline, so said “chapter” has gotten a bit big for its britches. It’s all very connected in terms of themes and plot but there’s a small time jump and a huge tonal shift halfway through and some pretty big moments scattered throughout, so I’ve decided I want to give everything some room to breathe (not to mention the readers) by splitting it up.
> 
> So the bad news is this is a short chapter (though not especially short by Hail Mary standards) and so is the next, but on the other hand… two updates?? The next one should be up on Friday, barring unforeseen circumstances. Perhaps the best thing is you get to enjoy this lovely hurt/comfort chapter in isolation before the next chapter, which reads like something out of a horror novel (jokes, kind of). Both chapters contain mentions of child abuse and threats of violence but no actual violence (of that type), and they’re pretty chock full of abuse survivor psychology, so aspects of them could be triggering. Take care of yourselves.
> 
> One final note: There's an anecdote involving a shopping cart mid way through chapter 3 (scene 2, paragraph 6) that might be worth reviewing prior to reading these next two chapters, as it comes up again.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for references to and threats of physical abuse.

It all happens so fast.

It’s supposed to be a routine play. Easy. Simple. Boring, even. Catra’s the primary target, running a square-out pattern. She and Adora have practiced this exact pass hundreds if not thousands of times. But when Catra turns to catch near the sideline, expecting the pass already on the way, she sees Adora getting thrown headfirst into the grass instead.

The sight is bad enough, but Adora’s howl of pain is what really does it. It triggers something instinctual, almost feral inside of Catra. Heat flares in her chest and cheeks, overwhelming her logical brain and all but whiting out her vision.

Sprinting to the scene of the crime, she tackles the defender standing over Adora. She shouts at him, grappling and pinning him, kicking his leg out when he tries to get back up. People are yelling nearby, but she’s too dialed in to process anything beyond _this asshole hurt my girl._

Suddenly she’s ripped away, held aloft with her arms pinned to her sides. Her strength is no match for the beefy arms that have her in a vice grip, dragging her away from Adora’s assailant.

“Get off of me!” she shouts, struggling in their grip.

“No,” comes Rogelio’s voice from behind her, gruff and infuriatingly calm.

Thrashing fruitlessly, Catra roars in frustration and rage. “Let me go!”

“Catra, stop!” Lonnie steps between her and the defender, gripping her shoulders as she fixes her with an intense stare. “Let it go.”

A new wave of anger surges in Catra’s chest. How can Lonnie say that? “That bastard hurt Adora!”

“We need you, okay?! We need you!”

Those words hit Catra hard, the undertone of desperation in them stunning her into wide-eyed silence. Gloved fingers twisting in Catra’s jersey, Lonnie presses on. “You’re the MVP, remember? What are we supposed to do if Adora’s injured and you’re suspended? You think we can beat the Royals then, huh?”

The truth of that resounds in Catra’s logical brain (and ego), but her salamander brain is still fighting for control. Growling, she sends the guy a death glare over Lonnie’s shoulder as he gets to his feet. He’s glaring right back, rubbing his neck where her arm was wrapped around it. As if he didn’t deserve that and much worse.

Fingers suddenly obstruct Catra’s vision as Lonnie grabs her facemask, jerking her head back to face her. “He’s not worth making this worse,” states Lonnie. “You’re our MVP. Act like it.”

Lonnie’s eyes and voice are stern, yes, but also steady. Calming. Catra doesn’t respond well to lectures, that’s an understatement, but this isn’t from an authority figure. As much as they have butted heads in their lifetime, Lonnie doesn’t get Catra’s hackles up the same way.

Closing her eyes, Catra takes a few deep breaths, expelling the excess anger from her body with shuddering exhales. When her hands stop shaking and her jaw unclenches, her eyes pop back open with purpose. “Adora…”

Lonnie steps aside and Rogelio lets Catra go. Before she can even start toward Adora, the ref catches everyone’s attention with his whistle and signals the penalties on the play. Catra feels heat flaring under her collar anew when he kicks her out the game and not the other guy, but she swallows it down. It’s not the end of the world. She already got that return for a touchdown she needed and the game was over two quarters ago anyway.

Adora is her priority. She needs to stay calm for her, comfort and care for her. So she goes and does just that.

That resolve to keep her cool gets tested when that Thaymor captain who had the nerve to slap Adora’s ass comes over and tries to take Catra’s place, but thankfully the girl backs off before it escalates. Catra and the trainer help Adora to her feet and escort her off the field, Catra guiding Adora with a hand on her lower back. The touch is admittedly a gesture of possession as much as comfort. As they start the walk back to the school, Catra shoots the captain one last glare over her shoulder. The fucker doesn’t even react, just watches with worry as they leave. Like it’s her fucking job to worry about Adora.

Despite the injury being in her wrist, Adora is wobbling on her feet, pale and shivering by the time they make it to the changeroom. Catra quickly grabs Scorpia’s jacket and drapes it over Adora’s shoulders as the trainer sits her down - her own wouldn’t come close to fitting her with all her gear on.

They help Adora get her gloves and helmet off and then the trainer starts to poke and prod at the injured wrist. Shedding her extra gear as well, Catra settles beside Adora, taking her uninjured hand and rubbing soothing circles into her back. Adora squeezes tighter several times, whimpering at especially painful motions. Shushing her quietly, Catra cups the back of her hand and laces their fingers together, sweeping her thumb over Adora’s palm.

“Well, I don’t think it’s broken,” the trainer concludes. “More likely a bad sprain. I’d still get it x-rayed though, just in case.”

Adora doesn’t respond, so Catra answers for her. “Thanks. We will.”

He wraps the wrist in a tensor bandage and gives Adora some painkillers and an instant ice pack. Then he heads back to the field, leaving them alone.

Poking the ice pack with her good hand, Adora remarks, “It’s not very cold.”

“It’s over a bandage,” Catra points out, but she reaches out to check it all the same. Frowning at the decisive lack of cold, she picks it up and squishes the contents around to speed up the reaction. “There you go,” she says, pressing it to Adora’s wrist and holding it there.

Adora sniffles in reply and Catra instinctively reaches up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Adora flinches and Catra almost pulls her hand back until Adora grabs on and holds it there. “Cold,” she mutters in explanation, but she still leans into Catra’s touch.

A new tear leaks from the corner of her eye and Catra brushes it away. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be okay.” Forcing a smile, she adds, “At least it’s not your throwing arm.”

“Still hurts like a bitch,” grumbles Adora. Shivering again, she drops her hand from Catra’s to rub some warmth into her forearm.

“You think it’s broken?” Catra asks quietly.

Mouth twitching, Adora muses, “Nah, doesn’t hurt the same way. Hard to explain.”

“You don’t have to,” snorts Catra, “I’ve broken my wrist before, remember?”

Adora’s eyes drop and Catra’s follow, a sinking feeling in her chest. “Or, well, my wrist got broken,” she mutters. Clearing her throat, she deflects, “You should get an x-ray anyway. To be sure.”

Lips pursing tightly, Adora shakes her head. “The team needs me, and I can’t play with a cast on, even on the left.”

Catra huffs in disbelief. “Oh my god, Adora.”

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid. If it’s broken and you don’t get it fixed in time it’ll be fucked up for the rest of your life. Don’t worry about the playoffs, your health comes first.” When Adora opens her mouth to argue, Catra goes for the jugular. “You’ve got your whole college career ahead of you, you can’t risk your future over high school playoffs. What would Weaver say if you wasted all that potential of yours?”

“Yikes, okay,” relents Adora, eyes wide. “I’ll get it checked.”

Catra smiles, relief and smugness fighting for control of the expression. “Good girl.”

A very obvious blush flares in Adora’s cheeks and she looks away. “Yeah, yeah. Anything to get you off my back.” Another shiver runs through her and she nods over to where her stuff is hanging up. “Hey, can you grab my hoodie?”

“It’s not gonna fit,” Catra says flatly.

“No, I know, I wanna get changed.”

“Oh, okay.”

Catra grabs Adora’s t-shirt and jacket too, figuring she’s going to need as much warmth as possible. When she turns back and finds Adora squirming in her jersey, trying to wrestle out of it with one hand, her stomach tightens. Shuffling closer, she mumbles, “Uh, you need some help?”

Adora shakes her head stubbornly. “No, I can do it.”

She proceeds to get more and more tangled up, practically strangling herself with her collar. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. Catra waits impatiently for her to wear herself out, cleats tapping on the floor. Finally Adora deflates with a sigh, head stuck somewhere near her armpit, and Catra repeats emphatically, “Do you need some help?” 

She can just hear Adora’s pout in the way she mutters, “Yes, please.”

Catra snorts, stepping closer. “Arms up.”

Adora complies and Catra untangles her from the mess she made. With the jersey finally off, she helps her out of her shoulder pads and strips off the Under Armour clinging to her sweaty skin. She swallows thickly, trying to keep her eyes from roaming as she discards the top and grabs Adora’s t-shirt from the bench. Sure, she’s seen Adora undress lots of times, but she’s not usually involved in the process. And if she’s being honest, she might be a little on edge because of what Adora said to her earlier.

Apparently, Adora wants to have sex with her. Or at the very least, she’s open to the idea of Catra being her first. Which is funny, given how she reacted when Lonnie even suggested they kiss a few days ago. Then again, Catra reacted the exact same way. Pot, meet kettle.

On one hand, Catra’s kind of proud that Adora trusts her enough to be vulnerable with her. It’s flattering from someone who doesn’t do vulnerability, Catra would know. But is it actually good that Adora feels so at ease around her that she sees her as a safe person to practice with? Catra sure doesn’t feel at ease around Adora, not in that way. Being a low-risk option isn’t exactly a compliment.

Then again, it’s not like this is unfamiliar territory for Catra - it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been someone’s first, or an experiment. It’s not like she’s a total thot, she does have standards, but she’s shown several girls a good time. She even pegged DT once, which was admittedly very satisfying what with how annoying they are. But she mostly just did those things because people obviously wanted her and she liked feeling wanted. It's a novelty in her life, a novelty that has yet to wear off.

Truth be told, the only person Catra has actually enjoyed sleeping with is Lonnie. Maybe that’s because they have a deeper connection, or maybe it’s because Lonnie’s the only person she’s trusted enough to relax and simply enjoy the experience without fear. And it was playful, competitive but also chill in a way. Some people seem to expect to have some kind of life-altering epiphany or something when she makes them come. Lonnie’s nonchalance was surprisingly refreshing, and reflected Catra’s own feelings on the matter. (Except for the times they hate fucked, but that was a much more comfortable and familiar kind of intensity.)

Maybe that’s what’s going on. Maybe Adora thinks that because Catra has done it with Lonnie she could do it with her too, no big deal. But with Lonnie she wasn’t having to suppress any feelings, she could just enjoy what they had. Catra doesn’t know if she could bear being with Adora but not really _being_ with her.

Maybe she should do it anyway. She sure doesn’t want anyone else to be Adora’s first. Definitely not that sexy butt-touching linebacker. Adora _should_ be hers, and she should be Adora’s. And she could make it a good first experience for her, safe and fun and pleasurable. She just doesn’t know if she could handle how much it would hurt after. She doesn’t want to be Adora’s guinea pig, she wants to be her girlfriend.

She… fuck. She wants to be her girlfriend.

Guiding Adora’s injured arm through her jacket sleeve, Catra presses the ice pack back to her wrist. Clearing her throat, she asks, “Shoes? Pants?”

“Yeah,” says Adora.

A couple minutes later, Catra is kneeling at Adora’s feet lacing up her Chucks. She can’t help smiling to herself, reminiscing about how this kind of reminds her of third grade, but she doesn’t say that out loud. Adora’s sensitive about how long it took her to learn to tie her shoes, how long it takes her to master pretty much any fine motor skill. Hopefully that doesn’t extend to-

Nope. Nope nope nope, not going there.

Rising to her feet, Catra tugs at the pants she left bunched below Adora’s knees, forcing her to stand. When she gets the elastic waistband up over Adora’s hips, she lets it snap back and hit the small of Adora’s back. Adora pouts at her, no heat behind it, and Catra laughs.

“I’m glad you wore sweats today,” she remarks, letting her hands skim along Adora’s waist on the way back. “Wrestling jeans up your sweaty thunder thighs would’ve been a nightmare.”

“I keep telling you they’re practical.” Adora grins weakly, her lower lip quivering despite her efforts. It makes Catra’s chest ache.

Slipping her arms around Adora’s ribs, Catra pulls her into a tight hug. Adora deflates at the pressure, but in a good way, slumping against Catra and letting her take her weight.

“You’re gonna be okay, Adora,” murmurs Catra, tipping her head up to speak right into Adora’s ear.

Adora whimpers slightly, bringing her arms up to rest on the bulk provided by Catra’s shoulder pads. “You promise?”

Catra smiles into the corner of her jaw. “I promise.” Slipping her fingers through Adora’s, she gives her hand a soft tug. “Come on.”

She guides Adora back down to the bench and slides over, laying Adora down so her head is on her lap. Adora settles on her back on the hard surface, eyes fluttering shut as Catra’s nails graze her scalp. Emboldened, Catra drags her fingers through Adora’s locks and down to her hair tie, sliding it down her ponytail. Adora just chuckles in response and Catra grins, dropping the elastic on her chest.

With Adora’s hair now loose, Catra relishes the rare chance to play with it, winding it around and around her fingers. It’s so sleek and smooth, silky blonde strands gliding against her golden brown skin. Catra loves what she can do with her own voluminous waves, but they are a bitch to maintain. Adora doesn’t even use conditioner, for fuck’s sake.

Adora hums, smirking slightly as Catra continues to fiddle with her hair. “This is nice. Backwards, but nice.”

Hands stilling against Adora’s scalp, Catra frowns. “It’s only backwards because you make it that way.” Adora’s eyes flutter open, peering up at her for a change, and Catra holds her gaze intently. “You need to let me take care of you, too.”

Eyes sliding away, Adora absently plucks at her hair tie, letting it softly snap the underside of her wrist on repeat. “I don’t like needing help.”

“Neither do I,” Catra points out. “But we all do sometimes.”

She watches, scowling slightly, as Adora absorbs this with a frown. To be perfectly honest, she kind of resents the fact that she lets herself be vulnerable with Adora in this way (sometimes, anyway), but Adora rarely trusts her enough to reciprocate. Either that or she simply refuses to because her ego is more important to her than their friendship.

Okay, to be fair, maybe Catra hasn’t always made her desire for reciprocity and an equal partnership clear enough. Or maybe Adora is just dense. Still, saying it outright is dangerous. It gives Adora a chance to shut her down, in more ways than one.

“Besides,” she says, a tinge of hopeful desperation seeping into her voice as she rakes her nails gently along Adora’s scalp, “it’s me.”

 _I would never hurt you,_ she thinks with all her might, trying to telepathically jam the words she dares not say aloud through Adora’s thick skull. _You can trust me too. I’d defend you to my dying breath. Why can’t you see that? Why won’t you let me?_

_I love you, you moron._

Adora’s eyes flick up to her, soft as the smile slowly curling her lips. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s you.” 

Catra’s shoulders slump as that hope leaves her with a sigh. Adora doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t. But Catra can’t stay mad at Adora, not when she’s looking at her like that.

“You’re such an idiot,” she mutters, her good-natured grin hopefully making it clear she means it nicely this time. By the looks of Adora’s smile, it does.

A knock on the door jolts them from their little moment, their eyes meeting in alarm this time. It’s a very familiar knock, one that makes Catra’s heart jump and then sink into her stomach.

Sighing heavily, Catra pats Adora’s collarbones to silently tell her she’s got it. Gently easing out from under her, she lays Adora’s head softly on the bench before going to meet her doom.

When she opens the door, she finds exactly what she expected: Ms. Weaver, looking incredibly unimpressed.

“Ah…” Catra finds herself faltering despite the complete lack of surprise. “Hey, Ms. Weaver.”

“Catra,” she replies coolly.

Arms folding across her chest instinctively, Catra shifts her weight to her back foot. “What are you doing here?” she asks, trying for casual and failing miserably.

Weaver cocks her head, peering at her as though she is some kind of imbecile. “I’m taking Adora to the hospital for x-rays, of course.”

 _Not even pretending to care about watching the rest of the game for the others, huh?_ Catra doesn’t say that out loud, either.

“Good,” she replies flatly. “The moron didn’t want to.”

“I can hear you,” Adora grouses from the bench. Sitting up with a wince, she pointedly adds, “And I agreed to go.”

“Only after I guilt tripped the hell out of you.”

Adora snorts. “Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.”

“Well, Ms. Weaver wasn’t here,” Catra sasses her right back. “Somebody had to.”

While Adora huffs around like she does and gathers her remaining possessions, a cold hand lands on Catra’s shoulder. She flinches, eyes darting over to take in the threat in her periphery, but the touch is not dangerous. Not yet.

“Thank you for bringing her into line,” says Weaver.

The approval makes Catra’s stomach turn, and not in a good way. She’s not Weaver’s accomplice, not her fucking sheepdog. She does what she does for Adora. Not her.

“Yeah,” she mutters, averting her eyes, “you’re welcome.”

That grip on her shoulder tightens, Weaver’s nails digging into the skin just inside her collar. Not hard enough to hurt really, but enough to make the threat. Her voice is every bit as menacing as her touch as she leans in, speaking lowly into Catra’s ear. “But I hope you know that does nothing to erase your disgraceful behavior on the field.” Catra barely manages to contain a shudder as Weaver’s fingers squeeze her collar, cinching it tighter. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Catra’s breath catches but she pushes it out, playing it off as a scoff. “Of course I am,” she says, a slightly maniacal grin spreading across her cheeks.

Weaver’s eyes darken, jaw tightening dangerously. “Wipe that smirk off your face, young lady.”

It’s a useless command; the grin is a product of stress as much as insolence, something Catra could barely reign in even if she wanted to. Irritating Weaver is not her goal, but it is a welcome bonus. Getting under Weaver’s skin is one of the few triumphs Catra can get living in that hellhole.

Her grin only grows as the anger burns hotter in Weaver’s cheeks. “Or what?” she asks, tipping her chin up in defiance.

Weaver grips Catra’s chin now, free hand flexing menacingly at her side. “Or I will do it for you,” she promises.

“Hey, I’m ready!” Adora steps between them, a little too eager to interrupt. She’s trying to play it off as obliviousness but doing a shit job, eyes far too bright and body very conveniently blocking half of Catra’s.

This time, Catra can’t bring herself to resent Adora playing the hero. She needs rescuing too sometimes, and she can’t help preening when Adora chooses her over Weaver, futile as her efforts to protect her usually are. Besides, the look on Weaver’s face is priceless.

Smirk turning smugger by the second, Catra raises an eyebrow, daring the woman to make a move. Weaver’s not above hitting them in front of each other, though she prefers to do it in isolation, but she knows better than to risk it in a public place. Weaver can’t touch Catra here, and frustrating her now is so worth how much it will hurt later. A battle won is still a win, even if she loses the war.

Dropping her hand with a barely muffled snarl, Weaver nods sharply at the door. “Let’s go, Adora.”

As she turns away, Adora glances at Catra and exhales with exaggerated relief, raising a pointed ‘what the fuck were you thinking’ eyebrow. Catra just shrugs, motioning for her to follow Weaver.

Stopping at the threshold, Weaver turns around and levels a pointed glare at Catra. “I am not through with you. We will be having a conversation tonight.”

“Looking forward to it,” Catra snarks cheerily, waving goodbye. She really is asking for it, but she’s not going to let this woman have a shred of victory or satisfaction. Not until she’s forced to.

Adora shoots Catra another exasperated, scolding look over her shoulder as she leaves, prompting a scowl in return.

Whatever, it’s not like the back talk actually mattered. Weaver was gonna come down on her either way after what she did, she might as well earn it. Besides, protecting Adora was worth it. She’d take much worse to keep her girl safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three cheers for Lonnie knowing _exactly_ how to get through to Catra. As usual she is the squad’s unsung MVP.
> 
> Me, screaming at the doc as I write: “She loves you, you fucking walnut!”
> 
> I’ll see you guys in a couple days for the next chapter. The one after that concludes this mini arc about the Thaymor game, and that’s when shit really hits the fan. Thanks for your patience, this kind of drama takes some build up.


	11. Paralysis (The Waiting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra prepares for her upcoming ‘conversation’ with Weaver. Scorpia offers support. Adora misreads Catra’s needs. Weaver plays with her food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Sorry for the slight delay, this is a highly stylized chapter with delicate subject matter and it was something I wanted to make sure I got absolutely right before posting. [malachi-walker](https://malachi-walker.tumblr.com) betaed it and gave her seal of approval, so I’m confident it’s good now. Go check out [her work](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalachiWalker/pseuds/MalachiWalker/works) if you’re new to the fandom or have been living under a rock.
> 
> First things first. In case anyone didn’t see it, the lovely and talented [jem-jarrett](https://jem-jarrett.tumblr.com) posted some amazing cover art for this fic a while ago, a picture of that iconic hug from chapter 1. If you're enjoying the story, do me a favor and go reblog [that art](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/post/631834205311090688/holy-shit-guys-so-jem-jarrett-finished-the-cover) and/or the [fic promo post](https://johannas-motivational-insults.tumblr.com/post/631834924038733824/synopsis-adora-and-catra-have-been-best-friends) I recently put up.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING:
> 
> What you’re about to read is basically [Demons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026990/chapters/42594701) lite. It’s a chapter about the experience of being an abuse victim, the psychology and coping mechanisms that come along with it and why people in those situations sometimes act in ways that cause them harm and/or don’t leave the situation even if they ‘can.’ It’s written in a style that is meant to immerse the reader in that experience and I won’t lie, it’s unpleasant. It’s also extremely cathartic, if you’ve been there.
> 
> I should clarify, there is no actual violence in this chapter. The emotionally and physically abusive situation the squad lives in is discussed without censorship, but the chapter cuts off before anything violent happens. So while the content could certainly be triggering, it is not explicit.
> 
> That being said, I know some people are here for the cute yearning jocks and not the abuse commentary, and if this content makes you uncomfortable you can actually skip this chapter without missing too much. It provides some useful context for Catra’s headspace in the next chapter (which is Adora POV) and does a lot of environmental storytelling, but is pretty light on plot. I’ll leave a plot summary of the chapter in the end notes for anyone who wants to skip it. Anyone who does read it, maybe have some cute Halloween fluff lined up as a palette cleanser for afterwards. Cool? Cool.

_Tick, tick, tick…_

Catra’s eyes twitch in time with the obnoxiously loud clock mounted on the wall of the changeroom, jaw clenching tight. She’d have a mind to rip the batteries out of the damn thing if it wasn’t behind a metal cage. She didn’t even notice it until after Weaver and Adora left and she’d gotten changed, leaving her no distractions from her environment. Or her thoughts.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick…_

She could just leave. She’s pretty sure she’s allowed to return to the field as a spectator, technically speaking. But that would require moving, and she seems to have lost all motivation to do so. A heavy feeling of dread has settled over Catra since Weaver and Adora left, sucking the joy from her bones and filling them with lead. She’s been lying on the bench for a while now, staring numbly at the ceiling.

_Tick, tick…_

At least it’s constant, predictable. Predictable things, annoying as they may be, are easier to tune out. To tolerate.

Catra’s restlessness finally overpowers her paralysis, her hand slipping into the pocket of her varsity jacket. Pulling out her phone, she taps out a quick message to Adora.

 **Catra (9:07 PM):** how’re you feeling?

 **Adora (9:07 PM):** Shitty. Almost at ucc in toen

 **Adora (9:08 PM):** *town. Tectung w one handnsucks omg

 **Adora (9:08 PM):** FUCK

Catra snorts. She can just imagine the frustrated pout on Adora’s lips, the adorable way her brow crinkles when she’s annoyed. Adora takes her sweet time typing out the next message perfectly.

 **Adora (9:09 PM):** Want me to call w updates?

It’s tempting, the offer of something to distract Catra from the other shoe dangling above her head. But adding to Adora’s mental list of things to do when she’s already stressed and in a great deal of pain is the last thing Catra wants. She briefly considers telling Adora to call if she needs it, but that would no doubt get interpreted as a request rather than an offer.

 **Catra (9:10 PM):** dw about it. i’ll see you at home

 **Catra (9:10 PM):** feel better, enjoy the drugs

Closing the messaging app with a sigh, she surrenders to the endless cycle of flipping through her various social media feeds in search of a meager hit of dopamine.

It’s only a minute or two later that a distant yet thunderous roar fills Catra’s eardrums, making her head tilt with interest. Possibly Thaymor managed to get a touchdown, but it’s getting pretty late. More likely the raucous ovation is a salute to the seniors at the end of their final game.

The thought makes Catra squirm and fidget. There’s more lectures coming, she knows it, and she’s barely recovered from the last one. The rush of telling Weaver off has long since passed, leaving a sense of impending doom in its place. Talking back the way she did was incredibly stupid, but can she really say she regrets it when she’d do the exact same thing all over again? There’s no other way to handle Ms. Weaver, not without giving up pieces of herself. That’s what Weaver wants: for Catra to submit, to take herself apart for her, hand over her mangled remains just to avoid her wrath. Catra refuses to give her the satisfaction, no matter the cost.

Suddenly energized, Catra gets up and paces around the room, stretching her legs. Her hands wind in the hem of her shirt, grip the cuffs of her jacket before scratching at her salty skin with a scowl. She’s sorely tempted to bolt and avoid the impending humiliation, but they all came here on the team bus, so it’s not like she has a getaway vehicle. Besides, if she runs now that’ll only postpone the lecture until practice on Monday, and it’ll probably be worse. Either way, Catra prefers to just get it over with. Tom Petty was right, the waiting _is_ the hardest part. It’s the absolute fucking worst.

It’s almost a relief when Grizzlor storms into the room, fiery eyes scouring the recent influx of bodies like a heat-seeking missile. They lock onto Catra and she gulps, schooling her features into a blank slate.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Diaz?” he shouts, silencing the post-game chatter amongst the team. “You tryin’ to blow your chances for a scholarship? No team will wanna sign a loose cannon who’s gonna cost them yardage.”

That smarts a little, but Catra manages to keep her expression neutral as he continues his rant. Grizzlor is usually a man of few words, but not right now. Just her luck. Finally, he points a finger her way and concludes, “If you get suspended, we’re gonna be in trouble in the playoffs.”

That is what finally breaks her facade, a twinge of guilt afflicting her stomach and showing in her face, she knows it. Either that’s all Grizzlor wanted to see or he finally ran out of words, because he shoots her a final glare before disengaging.

It’s bad, but it’s a storm Catra can weather. She was expecting that. She fumes quietly from her spot on the bench, doing her best to listen as Cobalt debriefs the team on a job well done. Turns out the final score was 51-3, not their biggest win of the season but close. It could have been a lot worse if Fright Zone hadn’t lost two of their offensive stars with a quarter to go.

After praising their solid play, Cobalt concludes, “One more thing. I know things got a little testy out there, and I’d like to thank you guys for keeping your cool. You behaved admirably out there.” Levelling a pointed glare at Catra, he adds, “Most of you.”

Catra barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. It’s not like she didn’t see that coming. She stares back impassively instead, only blinking when Cobalt takes an unexpected step towards her. She can’t help bristling as he encroaches on her space, fighting the urge to hiss or dart away. Only the thought that there’s no way Cobalt would get away with assault keeps her seated. Well, that and a wave of paralyzing terror.

Stopping a few feet away, Cobalt raises an eyebrow and says, “I know you wondered why we didn’t pick you as a captain, Catra.”

That makes her blink, hard. She never told anyone that, not even Adora. Especially not Adora.

“Maybe you thought it’s because Adora’s the quarterback,” Cobalt presumes, before shaking his head. “No. This irresponsible, undisciplined bullshit is exactly why. A reckless shit stain like you isn’t fit to lead. You’re a liability out there, plain and simple.”

The words swim in Catra’s head and cut deep in her chest, tearing at old scars and threatening to make them bleed anew. She can’t breathe.

Irresponsible. Undisciplined. Reckless. Liability.

Liability.

The fact that he called her by her first name makes it exponentially worse.

Swallowing the glass shards in her throat somehow, Catra reacts the only way she knows how. Flashing a grin, she jokes, “And here I thought it was my sunny personality.”

Cobalt stiffens, anger flaring in his eyes. “Do not talk back to me, Diaz. You are on thin ice, you hear?”

Eyes falling, Catra sets her jaw and tries to calm the hurricane in her chest. Getting a reaction out of Cobalt isn’t nearly as satisfying as getting one out of Weaver, and it’s definitely not worth the extra humiliation she just heaped on herself, humiliation she can’t deflect or escape. She has a lot more to lose here than with Weaver. It’s not just her skin on the line, it’s her whole fucking future.

Gritting her teeth, Catra settles her breath and forces herself to meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Narrowed eyes still locked on her, Cobalt says, “Dismissed, everyone. Be on the bus in fifteen.” Then he turns and leaves.

The boys follow, awkwardly filing out and into their changeroom across the hall while the girls awkwardly stand around pretending they didn’t just witness that. Eventually the postgame chatter starts up again, in hushed whispers this time.

Catra doesn’t say anything more, staring blankly at her hands as the ambient sounds swirl around her. If she doesn’t open her mouth, she can’t cry.

Her burning eyes and heaving chest beg to differ.

It’s at least five minutes before anyone tries talking to her. When she sees Scorpia approaching in the periphery of her blurry vision she curses herself for making amends. The last thing she needs right now is useless platitudes and a crushing hug.

“Uh… hey, Catra,” mutters Scorpia. “Um, look, I grabbed this for you from the bench.” A blurry brown blob enters her field of view, Scorpia gently setting the object down in her lap. “Figured you’d want to keep it.”

A swell of gratitude surges in Catra’s chest, but suddenly she’s even closer to crying and she doesn’t dare acknowledge the gesture in any way. Scorpia seems to understand, giving her shoulder a soft pat before leaving her alone.

The bus ride home is easier. People aren’t really paying attention to her anymore, and the mood on the bus is appropriately jovial after such a decisive victory. It leaves Catra to stew in peace, glaring out the window as she clutches the ball tight to her chest. It can’t be more than three hours since she ran that historic return. How did she go from that to this?

When they arrive back at the school, Lonnie and the boys start to follow Scorpia to her car. Suddenly Catra’s entertaining the urge to offer them a ride home in Swift Wind, just to spite Weaver and prove to Adora that she can in fact drive safely. But she thinks better of it quickly. Catra doesn’t want to leave Melog at the school overnight, especially not when there’s a good chance Weaver won’t let her out of the house tomorrow. Weaver might confiscate her keys, but it’s better than leaving her baby to get jacked by some crackhead.

At that thought Catra frowns, eyes dropping to the ball in her arm. Even if she hadn’t gotten thrown out of the game and talked back at her, Catra would fear Weaver confiscating or destroying the souvenir. Ever since she quit gymnastics, Weaver’s had an unofficial rule that Catra isn’t allowed to revel in her own accomplishments. There’s a reason she’s hidden the framed article Adora gave her in the back of the closet, though even that is probably not safe enough. Who knows when Weaver will do another one of her surprise sweeps for contraband? A football may be innocuous enough in a house full of football players, but Catra’s not willing to take any chances, especially not with Weaver on the warpath.

Finally, she speaks.

“Hey, Scorp!” she calls, jogging after the hulking lineman. “Wait up!”

Scorpia shares a quick but loaded look with Lonnie before turning back, putting a little distance between herself and Catra’s housemates. She and Catra meet halfway, converging under a dim and buzzing lamp post.

“Catra, hey,” says Scorpia, the flickering light casting shadows on her nervous smile. The concern and pity are coming off her in waves. Catra hates it. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Catra says quickly, dismissing this with a shake of her head. “I need a favor.”

Scorpia visibly brightens. “Of course, Wildcat! Anything for you.”

Catra nods once, extending the ball to Scorpia. “Hold on to this for me, will ya? It’s…” Catra’s eyes drop, her voice following suit. “It’s not safe at home.”

The light flickers once, twice, but still nothing happens. Despite Scorpia’s tenacious loyalty, Catra almost starts to worry she’ll refuse. When she finally feels the ball being plucked from her hand, she sighs in relief and dares to look up.

Now it’s Scorpia with her eyes down, studying the ball with a pensive frown. Fingers tracing the textured leather, she swallows as she meets Catra’s eye again. “You know, if you need anything-”

“I do,” Catra interjects firmly. “For you to take care of that ball. Got it?”

Scorpia nods sadly, eyes big and wet and full of words unspoken. “Yeah, Catra. I got it.”

***

The sight of the empty driveway affords Catra a sigh of relief as she pulls up to the house. Scorpia drives like Adora, so of course she beat her, but if Weaver and Adora were back already it would have been problematic. As much as Catra wants to get this impending confrontation over and done with as soon as possible, she could use the extra time to prepare.

Not knowing how long she’ll have alone in the house, she does a rapid check of her various stashes: Clif bars taped to the underside of the dresser top, alcohol pads and band-aids slipped into the lining of a thick winter coat, painkillers wrapped individually in toilet paper and stuffed inside the shell of an old pen. She’s gotten creative over the years.

While the quick inventory is partly to soothe her own anxiety, assure herself she’s prepared for whatever may be coming her way, there’s a healthy dose of paranoia involved. Aside from the very real danger of Weaver confiscating supplies secretly to lull her into a false sense of security, there’s always the chance one of the other kids got into her stuff out of desperation and hasn’t paid her back yet. Catra doesn’t think any of them know the current locations of her stashes, but then again she pretends not to know that Lonnie hides her weed behind a rotting box of snail bait in the garden shed. Safer not to assume.

The nice thing about having a job is being able to restock her own supplies, hidden as they may be. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have anything stronger than Advil right now. For a while she had some oxy saved up, bought at a steep price from a classmate recovering from an appendectomy. Adora might come home with something stronger tonight, but if she does it’s just getting locked up with the rest of the drugs anyway. Adora can’t help, as much as she’d no doubt love to.

Case in point, after the shopping cart incident Weaver was giving the pain meds prescribed for Catra’s wrist to Adora for her concussion symptoms. Apparently Adora’s brain really was damaged, because she made the noble and stupid mistake of trying to hide one of the pills under her tongue in hopes of returning it to its rightful owner. Weaver caught her, of course, and she ended up with a second impact injury and lost her painkiller privileges for two days of excruciating headaches. That whole saga was worse than normal too, because it was the summer and Weaver could effectively keep them locked in the house with no one questioning their condition. Adora has never tried anything like that again, and Catra doesn’t expect it now. She’d rip her a new one if she even tried.

Sighing at the meager stash, Catra pops a couple pills preemptively. They take time to kick in anyway, might as well get ahead of the pain.

As she tosses the pen back into the wire holder on top of the bookshelf, testing for a telltale rattle, it occurs to her that she can leave, avoid the pain altogether. She’s never had the option to escape a beating before, not without knowing she’d eventually be dragged back here and get it even worse. Weaver can’t do that anymore, not if Catra decides she’s leaving for good.

The thought is tempting, but fleeting. She can leave, but she has nowhere to go. Maybe last year Scorpia’s moms would have taken her in, but they no doubt hate her now after how she treated their daughter. Even if they don’t, there’s no guarantee that situation would be any less shitty. And to be honest, Catra would rather live under Weaver’s iron fist than be someone’s charity case. Her pride is literally all she has.

Besides, if Catra left she’d bet her ass Weaver would do everything in her power to keep her and Adora apart, exert as much influence over Adora as possible in the time she had left. Even if Adora felt brave enough to flee the nest once she signed a full ride and turned eighteen, that would give Weaver nearly three months to fuck with Adora in any way she wants, and that is _not_ happening, not on Catra’s watch. They made a promise to protect each other years ago. Catra hasn’t had as many opportunities to make good on it as Adora has, and she’s not going to squander the ones she has.

Now all that’s left is to kill time, again, and Catra decides to take advantage of the empty shower while she can. She takes care to finish with a cold rinse, though; warm and flushed skin is easier to break. If she stops to think about it she hates that she knows that, that it’s something she even has to consider, so she does her best not to think. This is her life, and she knows how to deal with it. That’s all that matters. Wishing for better things is for people with fucking options.

When Catra returns to the room she finds Lonnie sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone. The casual posing does nothing to mask the tension in her shoulders, nor the worry in her eyes as she casts Catra a fleeting glance. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” mutters Catra, not bothering to disguise the edge in her voice. Even a shower couldn’t calm her down after all those lectures, not knowing another was on the way. Lonnie knows that, why even fucking ask?

Lonnie gets the message and doesn’t push for more, silently taking Catra’s place in the bathroom before one of the boys can jump in. Alone in the room again, Catra decides to distract herself with homework. She doesn’t want to leave the safety of the room to go use the kitchen table, but she can get some reading done at least.

In theory, that is. It becomes readily apparent that Catra can’t focus on anything with this noose chafing her neck. After several frustrating minutes she gives up, abandoning the book and her bunk.

Hopping over the railing, she lands in a nearly silent crouch and crawls onto Adora’s bed. She scoots back against the wall, into the safety of the shadows, and wraps herself around Adora’s pillow. It’s pathetic, but at least she’s graduated from cowering in the closet. Nuzzling the pillow, she inhales and exhales slowly, deeply, fighting to steady her breaths.

_In, out. In, out._

She wishes Weaver would just get home already.

Lonnie makes absolutely no comments about Catra’s location and activities when she returns, because she doesn’t want to fucking die. Catra feels eyes on her a couple of times and bristles, growling in warning. Nothing Lonnie could say or do could make her feel better right now, not even things Scorpia would object to. As much as she needs comfort, Catra’s only option is to self-soothe. She wouldn’t even be able to stand Adora touching her right now, let alone anyone else.

Besides, even if she did somehow manage to relax, it would be a mistake. Catra needs to enter Weaver’s sanctum with her armor intact. Breakdowns are for _after_.

She and Lonnie hold that stalemate of awkward understanding for another ten minutes before the sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes Catra’s heart jump. Her hyperalert ears strain and pick up the engine cutting out, doors opening and closing, and finally a pair of familiar voices. Catra’s stomach burbles, threatening to empty itself as a cold sweat breaks out on her brow. Consciously tuning out the voices, she squeezes the pillow tighter and wills her limbs not to shake as she resumes the deep breathing.

_In, out. In, out._

There’s some more talking and banging around downstairs before the stairs start to squeak with Adora’s familiar footsteps, slower and much heavier than usual. The door clicks open, revealing a haggard looking Adora with her left arm in a sling. No cast, though. Good.

“Hey tough girl,” teases Lonnie, “what’s the verdict?”

“Second-degree sprain,” mutters Adora, a tired hand running through her loose hair. “They said I can practice with a brace but need clearance to take contact. Probably will miss next week’s game.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Adora’s weight shifts as her eyes flit up to Catra’s bunk. She frowns and turns back to Lonnie. “Where’s-”

Lonnie cuts her off by silently pointing at her bed, and Adora’s eyes flick over to meet Catra’s. The sheer intensity and earnestness in them forces Catra’s to shut with a sigh. She does not need to get emotional right now.

_In, out._

Adora’s footsteps close in on her, then pause. Catra opens her eyes just in time to see her dip her head down to peek under the edge of Catra’s bunk. “Uh, Catra?” she says cautiously, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sling. “Weaver wants to see you.”

Her obvious apprehension is contagious, but also soothing in a way. It actually helps Catra settle her nerves, regain a bit of her bravado. It’s easier to be strong for someone else than for herself.

“Obviously,” snorts Catra. Tossing the pillow aside, she rolls off the bed and starts for the door. She doesn’t make it two steps before Adora is latching onto her shirt, pulling her back and into a one-armed hug. Catra bristles at the contact, a startled hiss squeaking through her teeth, but Adora doesn’t take the hint.

“I’m fine, Adora,” she says, forcing her voice to stay even. Adora only squeezes tighter, and Catra scowls. Doesn’t she understand that this is upsetting her at a moment she absolutely cannot afford it? Trying to shrug out of Adora’s grip, she insists, “Seriously, this is pretty routine for me.” Catra glances over to Lonnie for assistance, but she’s pointedly looking away.

“I’m sorry,” sniffles Adora, pulling back just enough to make eye contact.

Catra blinks, hard. Searching Adora’s teary eyes, she asks, “What for?”

Adora opens and closes her mouth several times, making a few odd stuttering sounds and eventually words. “I… it’s… this is-”

“Catra.” Weaver’s voice booms up the stairs, deep and demanding yet deceptively calm. Catra and Adora flinch in tandem, their eyes locking in a moment of panic. “Come.”

A shudder rolls through Catra’s body, her stomach bucking and churning as her legs wobble beneath her. Her eyes blur, the blood literally draining from her head. Oh god, she’s gonna puke. Or faint.

A warm, steady hand grips her arm, holding her upright. Catra breathes in through her nose, fixating on the grounding pressure as her vision slowly comes back into focus. Adora smiles down at her weakly, thumb rubbing her bicep. “I’ll be right here, okay?”

That’s far from comforting, actually. Catra hates there being any witnesses to her humiliation and defeat, but it’s part of the package deal. At least they don’t hear her scream or cry anymore. She stopped giving Weaver the satisfaction years ago.

Hand sliding down Catra’s arm, Adora gives her hand a parting squeeze. They both know there’s little time to waste before Weaver calls her again. You don’t make Weaver call twice, not if you value your life. Then again, there’s a lot of things Catra shouldn’t do if she values her life. Her pride is greater than her instinct for self-preservation, one of the many follies Weaver has failed to beat out of her over the years.

Not trusting her voice, Catra twitches her mouth in thanks and lets Adora’s hand slip from her grasp. Her head goes numb and floaty at the loss of contact, some automatic process taking over as she turns for the door.

It’s a long, familiar walk to the gallows. The stairs creak beneath Catra’s feet, piercing the almost deathly quiet of the house as she descends into the shadows of the main floor. Faint light from the street filters in through the living room window, illuminating the way to the back of the house. The refrigerator hums to Catra’s right as her feet robotically carry her past the kitchen, rough carpet tickling her naked toes.

Weaver’s door is shut, just an ominous strip of light peeking out from under it.

_In, out. In, out._

Rigid fingers clenching into a fist, she raps her knuckles against the rough wooden surface.

“Come in.”

Straightening her shoulders with one final breath in, Catra turns the handle and steps inside. A surreal rush washes over her as she steps into the light, sinking back into her body. She’s here now. It’s time.

Thank god.

Ms. Weaver stands in the middle of the room, a look of vague amusement in her eyes. “My my, what an eventful evening you had,” she remarks. “We have much to discuss.”

Oh, great, she’s in one of _those_ moods. Sometimes Weaver just can’t resist playing with her food before tearing it to pieces.

Ignoring all the alarms sounding in her brain and body, Catra shuts the door behind her. “I know, I know,” she sighs. “You’re disappointed in my reckless, _disgraceful_ behavior.”

Locking horns with Weaver might not be the smartest approach in terms of minimizing (physical) damage, but backing down hurts far more. The wounds it leaves are invisible, but deep. They mutilate a soul beyond recognition. Besides, Weaver’s the one who threw down the gauntlet. If she wants to play, Catra will give her a game.

Weaver wants to see her cower. She will do no such thing.

“No,” Weaver counters flatly. “To be disappointed I’d have to expect better.”

Catra winces at the sting of those words, she can’t help it. Weaver seems to notice but takes only a second to revel in that small victory before pressing onward. “Your incorrigible penchant for mischief spilling over into violent conduct is hardly surprising, nor is it new. The only surprise is that you would be stupid enough to pull something like this on the field.”

“It makes me look like a liability to prospective colleges, I know,” grumbles Catra, rolling her eyes as she tries to recover. “What do you care, anyway? It’s not like you want me to succeed.”

Weaver’s eyebrows arch. “Must I spell it out for you? Your behavior doesn’t just reflect badly on you, Catra, it’s a disgrace to the entire household. It hurts everyone here, Adora included.” That makes Catra’s eyes drop, gut rolling with guilt. “Do you think it’s easy to secure funding to provide for needy orphans when the ones under my care behave like total hooligans?”

“Well what did you want me to do?” Catra shoots back. “You made it very clear that the only thing I’m good for is helping Adora. I’d think you’d be happy. Does it not bother you that that fucking goon _threw her on her head?"_

“Of course it _bothers_ me,” Weaver retorts icily. “But you didn’t see me throwing a tantrum and committing assault in front of hundreds of people, did you?”

Catra scoffs. “No, you prefer to do that in private.”

Weaver stiffens, a sharp breath sucking in through her teeth. “Insolent child!”

Oh shit, she’s done it now. The familiar twin rushes of triumph and terror course through Catra’s veins as Weaver storms toward her, cheeks blazing with rage. 

“I have provided for you all these years despite your many shortcomings and constant insubordination, you ungrateful little brat,” spits Weaver, forcing Catra to look up at her as she backs her against the wall. “Need I remind you, I could have thrown you out on the streets the moment you turned eighteen.”

“How could I forget?” mutters Catra, eyes sliding away.

“It’s not too late,” Weaver assures her. A finger pressing hard against Catra’s sternum draws her gaze back up. “I still can, and will, if you refuse to submit to my authority and judgment.”

The use of the A word makes a growl rise in Catra’s throat, but she swallows it down. She got her little victory of getting to Weaver before she got to her, but the stakes are too high now to risk pushing her further. Besides, the longer they fight, the longer she has to live with the suffocating dread still curdling her insides.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she retorts, leaning away from the touch and crossing her arms protectively over her chest. “Just get it over with, already.”

“Over?” Weaver laughs mirthlessly. Shaking her head as she backs away, she says, “Oh no, child. You don’t get to tell me when this is over.”

Turning to her dresser, Weaver opens the second drawer. The drawer that makes Catra’s stomach flip, even when she knows it’s coming. Her breath stutters as a shudder runs through her body, thankfully at a moment Weaver’s not looking at her.

“But if you insist,” says Weaver, holding Catra’s gaze as she reaches inside, “we can begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well if that’s not ominous enough for you, here’s next chapter’s TV-style trailer with out of context quotes…
> 
> Next time, on Hail Mary:  
> “I mean, you are kind of disrespectful.”  
> “It’s none of your fucking business.”  
> “Just behave yourself for a fucking change.”  
> “Of course I’m mad!”  
> “GET OUT!”
> 
> Plot summary:  
> -Catra is filled with anxiety after being left alone in the changeroom. She reflects on the idiocy of talking back to Weaver but admits she would do it again anyway. She expects lectures from the coaching staff as well, and she gets them.  
> -Scorpia gives Catra her ball from the historic return in chapter 9, but Catra ends up giving it back because she’s concerned Ms. Weaver will confiscate or destroy it.  
> -Catra prepares for her upcoming ‘conversation’ with Weaver by checking her hidden supply caches of food, medical supplies, and painkillers. She then waits for Weaver to return, rebuffing Lonnie’s attempts at comfort so she can keep her metaphorical armor intact.  
> -Adora and Weaver return and Adora reveals she has a second-degree sprain and can practice without contact but might have to miss next week’s game. She also attempts to comfort Catra prior to her meeting with Weaver, which causes Catra distress because she can’t afford to get emotional.  
> -Catra goes to see Weaver, who guilts her by saying her behavior could impact funding for the group home. Weaver says Catra threw a tantrum and committed assault in public and Catra shoots back that Weaver prefers to do that in private. Weaver loses her temper, invades Catra’s space and threatens to throw her out of the house if she doesn’t comply with her punishment. Catra has decided staying in the house is her only viable option right now, so she acquiesces and tells Weaver to just get it over with.


	12. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora struggles to understand Catra's self-destructive choices. Catra feels disrespected and lashes out. Lonnie gets high and gives good advice badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting so patiently for this update, it's been a crazy month and I've been doing more vidding lately so that's sucked up some of my extra time. (Psst, check out my latest offering [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fngokay1x5M).) Honestly there will probably be a bit of a wait for the next chapter too, but I felt I'd made you guys wait long enough for the conclusion to this mini arc.
> 
> If it makes up for it this is a huge ass chapter, nearly double the usual size for this fic. It's also an insane Catradora relationship drama chapter, so good luck to you. But...
> 
> CONTENT WARNING for blood, drug use, and vague depictions and threats of abuse.
> 
> (Yes, there is a scene of physical abuse, as you may have guessed coming in. However, it is off-screen and pretty vague. If you skip the first quarter of the paragraph following “and that’s never good” you’ll avoid it. [You could in theory skip that whole paragraph but you'd also miss some important headspace stuff for Adora that’s the actual point of the paragraph.] Also, there's some allusions to Catra's injuries following that scene, but most of it isn't explicitly described. There's just a good old hurt/comfort [sort of] scene involving treatment of a wound.)

Catra’s soft footsteps fade completely as she disappears downstairs. The quieter they get, the more Adora’s shoulders tense up. This is the calm before the storm, and it won’t last long.

“I, uh…” Lonnie’s strained voice pulls Adora’s attention to her in time to see her restless hands wind in her shirt. “I’m gonna go meet Scorpia.”

“Okay,” Adora says numbly. She knows it’s total bullshit; Kyle texted her to let her know Scorpia was driving them home. But she also knows Lonnie needs a reason to leave right now. Any reason at all.

Adora can sympathize with the need to flee, the cold sweat and bad memories that can be brought on by what they’re about to hear, but she stays. She feels like she owes Catra that much. This all happened because of her, after all. So she sits on her bed, hugging her knees as Lonnie makes a swift exit. She’s in such a hurry that she forgets her phone on her bed, but Adora can’t make her mouth open again to say anything.

Lonnie’s barely made it down the stairs before the muffled sounds of an argument start to waft through the house. Mostly Weaver’s voice, but also Catra’s, who even after a lifetime of these confrontations still insists on talking back and making things worse for herself instead of apologizing and getting it all over with faster. Adora can’t make out most of the words, but she does hear Weaver shout “insolent child,” and that’s never good.

It’s not long before the blows begin. They aren’t punctuated by yelps and sobs like they used to be when Catra was small, but the sounds still make Adora flinch, still make her eyes burn and flood with tears. Tears of sympathy, but also frustration. It doesn’t have to be like this. If Catra would just apologize or even let herself cry, maybe Weaver would cut it short. Adora uses that strategy… well, it’s more that Weaver expressing that much anger or disappointment in her makes her cry and apologize regardless and being hit only makes it worse, but still. Either way, it works for her. No reason it shouldn’t work for Catra, if she would just swallow her pride long enough to surrender.

Despite her intention to stay present for Catra, eventually Adora can’t take any more of this. Her hands clamp over her ears and she begins rocking back and forth on the bed, humming to fill her head with white noise. Time loses all meaning as she retreats into her own head, eyes squeezing shut as she loses herself in the soothing motion and sounds. She has no idea how much time passes before the sound of stomping footsteps approaching begins drawing her back to the present.

Adora’s eyes flutter open just in time to see Catra throw open the door, eyes dry but red-rimmed and smoldering. She turns with a growl and slams the door shut, making Adora just about jump out of her skin as she’s jolted harshly back into reality.

“Catra!” she reprimands her, more sternly than she meant to. Catra whips around, eyes wide, and Adora realizes her mistake. But she remains emphatic even as she softens her voice slightly. “Don’t be an idiot, she’s given it to you for less.”

Catra scoffs, tongue tucking under her lip. “Pretty sure the old hag already wore herself out. She wouldn’t want to break a hip, now.”

Adora’s jaw slips open as she stares at Catra in disbelief. “How can you laugh about this?”

Eyes snapping up sharply, Catra crosses her arms. “What do you want me to do, cry?”

“I don’t know,” huffs Adora, shrugging off her discomfort. “Yes?”

“Why, so you can make me feel better?” demands Catra.

Adora’s jaw tenses. Is that what she wants? There’s certainly a familiarity there, something almost nostalgic. She used to play the role of protector and comforter on a regular basis. Catra used to let her. Then things got complicated. Catra started making things harder than they had to be.

_“I just want to protect you,” Adora said earnestly as Catra climbed the ladder to her bunk. “Why do you make that impossible?”_

_“She comes down on me either way, Adora,” argued Catra, her tone almost resigned. “I might as well earn it.” Flopping onto her stomach, she groaned into the mattress. “I can’t wait to get out of this dump. What is her problem with me?”_

_Tugging gently at her own fingers, Adora pointed out, “I mean, you are kind of disrespectful.” Maybe not disrespectful enough to deserve the harsh punishments she received, but there was no arguing Catra made things worse for herself with the attitude she’d always given Weaver, even when they were kids._

_Catra turned her head, peering through the wooden slats of the guardrail. Her eyes were narrowed, burning with betrayal. “Seriously, Adora?” she hissed._

_“What?” asked Adora, weight shifting onto her back foot. When Catra’s expression didn’t change, Adora sighed and reached out to take her hand. “Catra, look, I’m just saying-”_

_The hand slipped from her grasp immediately as Catra snatched it away. “Don’t touch me,” she growled, tears welling up in her eyes. “Get out of my room.”_

_All but paralyzed in the face of such hostility, Adora only managed a weak “It’s my room too.”_

_“GET OUT!”_

Catra barely spoke to her for three weeks after. Adora knows she’s on thin ice here and has to proceed with caution.

Maybe there’s some truth to Catra’s accusation. Adora misses being Catra’s comfort, her shelter. But mostly, it’s that Adora knows what to do with tears. She has no idea what to do with this.

“Catra,” she begins gently as she stands, her good hand reaching out to rest on the girl’s shoulder. Catra hisses reflexively, wincing at the contact, and Adora jerks her hand back. “Shit, sorry.”

Catra rolls her eyes but doesn’t reply. Her arms cross tighter over her chest as she sets her jaw, glaring at the wall.

“I’m so sorry, that was stupid,” stammers Adora, “I should have known b-”

“Oh my god, Adora,” Catra cuts her off with a groan. “I don’t care. Just say what you were gonna say already.”

Well, that’s not promising. Swallowing hard, Adora takes the tiniest step closer and reaches for Catra’s hand this time. Nice and slow, so she has time to pull back if she wants. Catra doesn’t pull away, but she does flinch a little at the touch, watching as Adora laces their fingers together. After a few seconds of safe, sustained contact, she finally relaxes a little. Her arms uncross and shoulders sag as she lets their joined hands hang down in the space between them.

“Catra, look,” Adora starts again, squeezing softly, “I appreciate you standing up for me. Really.” Smirking to herself, she admits, “Honestly, I was kind of impressed.” Turned on is more the word for it, but she can’t exactly say that.

Catra’s eyes flit up, a spark of hope in them. And Adora hates to smother it, but…

“But the way you did it caused so much trouble for you, for the team. Would it kill you to take this seriously?”

Eyes hardening, Catra pulls her hand away. “I know what I did, Adora,” she states, all but devoid of emotion. “I knew the consequences. It was still worth it.”

“Why? It’s not like he was gonna hurt me any more when I was already injured and out of the game. You didn’t need to defend my honor.”

“I didn’t know how bad you were hurt,” protests Catra. “Besides, what about all those times you punched kids who bullied me in grade school?”

“That was different,” argues Adora. “They were hurting you, and it stopped them from coming back.”

“Yeah, and maybe that asshole will think twice about tackling you so rough next time.” Catra smirks smugly as she crosses her arms again, clearly very proud of herself.

Tossing her hand in the air in frustration, Adora spells out, “We’re seniors. And Thaymor’s not making the playoffs.”

Catra rolls her eyes with a huff. “You know what I mean, Adora.”

“No, I really don’t,” insists Adora. “There was no point to this, Catra. I appreciate the thought, but it was a bad move. You went about it all wrong.”

Catra’s face screws up and she automatically turns it away, and once again Adora is struck by the urge to reach out and comfort her. But she knows better. Instead she waits as Catra sucks in a shaky breath, lifting one trembling hand to pinch her brow.

“Adora, I have been chewed out by Grizzlor and Cobalt for this, in public no less,” Catra spells out, her voice tight and straining. “Then all this from Weaver.” Her eyes finally open, revealing unshed tears welling up behind the lids. “I can’t take another lecture.”

This time Adora can’t help reaching for her again, her tone softening. “Catra-”

“I put myself on the line to save you, and this is the thanks I get?” demands Catra, stepping out of range. Her voice is even higher now and clearly on the verge of cracking, but Adora can’t help the way she bristles at the words.

“I didn’t need you to save me,” she retorts, hands clenching into fists. God, this is just like Catra. Treating Adora like the sissy quarterback or the helpless disabled kid who can’t take care of herself. Of fucking course Catra sees her as a burden. 

“Well I never needed you to save me either, but that sure never stopped you,” Catra shoots back. The tears have finally spilled over, rolling down her reddened cheeks. Swiping at them angrily, she chokes out, “You just love being the hero, don’t you? God forbid you let anyone do anything for you.”

The sheer hypocrisy is astounding, but Adora is too riled up to comment on it. Instead she snaps, “If you want to do something for me, then stop doing stupid shit and getting yourself in trouble. Stop acting out, stop talking back, just behave yourself for a fucking change.”

Catra stares at her for a moment, speechless. Her mouth slips open a little, and if Adora’s not mistaken there’s a tiny quiver in her lip. But then her jaw and eyes harden. When she speaks her voice is thick with tears and venom alike. “I can’t believe you’re mad at me.”

“You got in trouble for me and then you went and made it worse for no reason. Of course I’m mad!”

“Why, because it makes you feel more guilty?” snaps Catra. Tipping her head, she sneers, “Has it ever occured to you that not everything is about you, Adora? I’m not gonna turn into a snivelling little Kyle just so you can feel better about yourself. This has nothing to do with you anymore, so stay out of it. It’s none of your fucking business.”

“It _is_ my business,” states Adora. “You are my business, and I am yours.”

The words freeze Catra on the spot. When she finally looks up, her eyes are inquisitive in a way that makes Adora’s stomach turn. Oh, fuck. She’s said too much.

“What do you mean by that?” Catra demands quietly.

Mouth flapping uselessly as she tries to come up with something non-incriminating, Adora finally manages to stammer, “Everything that affects you affects me too.” Crossing her arms, she makes a terrible attempt at a casual shrug. That’s how it goes around here.”

Catra scoffs. “Right.”

“What?”

“Forget it.” Turning to the bunk ladder, Catra snarks, “I have homework to do, and I’d rather be alone. Do you mind?”

Squinting curiously, Adora asks, “You’re gonna do it here?”

“You expect me to sit?” retorts Catra, cocking a pointed eyebrow.

Adora concedes that with a wince but follows it immediately with a scowl. “Fine. I’ll go find Lonnie.” She steps past Catra, but can’t resist shooting one last glare over her shoulder. What she sees when she does freezes her halfway to the door.

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, all hostility suddenly sapped from her body as she stares at the splotch of red over the inner ridge of Catra’s right shoulder blade. “Catra, you’re bleeding.”

Sighing heavily, Catra lets her forehead thunk forward against the ladder. “Great. Just what I need.”

Frenetic energy rushes through Adora’s veins, her body and brain all but vibrating as she slips into disaster mode. “Where’s your supplies?”

Catra scoffs. “Like I’d tell you.”

“I’m not gonna steal them, I just want to help,” insists Adora, stepping closer without a second thought.

“I don’t want your help, Adora,” Catra asserts, turning and shielding her back against the ladder. She glares up at Adora in the suddenly cramped space. “How much clearer do I need to be?”

A sound half growl, half roar rumbles out of Adora’s chest, her hands furling into fists. “I can’t deal with you when you’re like this!”

“Then don’t!” Catra shouts right back, arms crossing tight over her chest. Eyes narrowing, she sneers, “If you don’t need me, then I don’t need you either. Just leave.”

Adora growls and drags her good hand through her hair, gripping tight until her follicles scream for relief. Finally her shoulders slump with a heavy sigh and she mutters, “You’re fucking impossible, you know that?” Then she turns and storms out of the room, kicking the trash can on the way out the door.

She’s been walking a couple minutes before her mind really returns to her. Her feet slow nearly to a stop as she takes in her surroundings, trying to remember why she’s even here. Obviously she stormed out because of Catra, but there was somethi-

Lonnie. Right.

Adora hustles ahead, turning left at the next street. The nice thing about living under the same terrifying roof for so many years is she has a pretty accurate inventory of everyone’s hiding spots. Lonnie has a couple, one just a block away from where Adora’s feet took her. Maybe Lonnie isn’t hiding from Weaver right now, but those spots still hold a certain familiar comfort, so it’s a decent bet.

Turns out, Adora’s right. She finds Lonnie sitting on an upturned milk crate in a dingy alley between two stores. Her stocky frame is a notable silhouette against the orange glow of a safety light over a nearby back door, her now much larger body only halfway hidden by the gas meter she used to cower behind. 

Lonnie doesn’t notice Adora’s approach, too busy staring at the concrete wall across from her as she takes a long drag from the joint pinched between her shaky fingers. Adora tries not to let her lips pucker at the sight. She should probably at least show a little disapproval, as team captain, but she doesn’t want to deal with another fight. Besides, even if she’s not a fan of the stuff she knows it helps Lonnie and occasionally Catra relax. And in their situation, she can’t fault them for that.

“Hey,” she says, and Lonnie leaps to her feet, spiking the joint on the ground behind her as she lands in a defensive stance. Adora takes half a step back, raising her hand. “Whoa, hey, it’s just me.”

Expelling a hard breath, Lonnie glares at her. “Shit, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Adora watches as Lonnie bends over to pick up the joint, flicking off some dirt before putting it back to her lips. That is so unsanitary, but Adora gets it. Growing up the way they did, ‘waste not’ is one of the earliest lessons they learned.

Hoping she’s positioning herself far enough away that the smell doesn’t seep into her clothing, Adora crosses the alley to lean against the wall opposite Lonnie as she takes another drag. “It’s over. You can come back now.”

Lonnie’s eyebrows arch, but she doesn’t reply right away. After several long seconds she exhales a slow breath and lazily blinks up to meet Adora’s gaze. “Took long enough. Catra have any skin left?”

“It wasn’t just now,” clarifies Adora, fiddling with the edge of her sling. “Catra kicked me out of the room, we had a fight.”

Lonnie snorts, butting out what’s left of her joint against the brick wall behind her. “Do I wanna know?”

Scowling down at the ground, Adora grouses, “I just don’t understand why she’s like this. She riles Weaver up like it’s some kind of game, zero regard for her safety or my sanity. And then she acts like I’m being ungrateful when she got in trouble for me unnecessarily and then insisted on making it worse for no goddamn reason. Like, am I really supposed to support her self-destructive behavior?”

Lonnie barks out a laugh and Adora’s head snaps up, mouth falling open in protest. As Lonnie doubles over, laughter devolving into a fit of giggles, Adora squawks, “What the hell, Lonnie? This isn’t funny.”

“It really-” Lonnie gasps in a breath “-isn’t.” Heaving in a few more breaths, she manages to straighten back up. “Sorry, weed’s kicking in. Smoked more than I meant to.” Then she bursts into giggles again, trying and failing miserably to muffle it with her hand.

“For fuck’s sakes,” mutters Adora. “Never thought I’d have to babysit you too.”

“Me _too_?” Lonnie stares at her, fingers sliding up to rub her temple as she works out the residual giggles. “Oh boy.”

“What?”

Squinting hard at Adora, Lonnie tips her head. “You wanna know why Catra acts the way she does?”

“Yes,” Adora answers emphatically. “I really, really do.”

“First of all, _that_ ,” says Lonnie. “She’s not some rowdy pet you have to keep in line, she’s a person. A person, Adora.”

“I know that!” protests Adora, heat prickling her cheeks. “But if I don’t keep her in line she gets hurt and I can’t stand it. And Weaver somehow always makes it feel like it’s my fault when she gets in trouble, like I _do_ have to keep her in line.”

“That sounds like a Weaver problem, not a Catra problem,” Lonnie says flatly.

“Yeah, but Catra makes it worse. On purpose,” stresses Adora. “She antagonizes the shit out of Weaver, what does she expect to happen?”

Lonnie blinks hard, staring at Adora like she’s grown a second head. “I…”

When she doesn’t continue that sentence, Adora tosses her good hand in the air and starts to pace. “And then she wouldn’t even let me help patch her up because, and I quote, ‘If you don’t need me, I don’t need you either.’ Ugh, why does she have to make everything so difficult?”

“Because she has short girl syndrome and she’s been taking the worst of Weaver’s shit for years,” says Lonnie, as though she isn’t even shorter than Catra. “She needs to feel tough and capable of taking care of herself, and you.”

Brow scrunching, Adora asks, “Why me?”

Lonnie shakes her head with a disbelieving scoff. “You really are dumb as a brick, you know that?”

“Hey!” snaps Adora.

“Sorry,” she backtracks, holding up a hand in apology. “I meant you’re dense as… uh… Weaver’s shitty pie crust.” A tiny giggle slips from her lips and she slaps a hand over her mouth.

Adora’s glower only deepens. “Is that supposed to be any better??”

“It’s not about your intellect,” Lonnie clarifies placatingly, though she’s still grinning like an idiot. “Let’s say you’re intelligence seven, perception zero.”

“Forget the shovel, you need a fucking backhoe,” Adora remarks flatly, crossing her arms. “Get to the point.” 

When Lonnie just blinks, a confused haze settling over her face, Adora snaps her fingers and reminds her, “Why does Catra need to protect me? What makes me so special?”

Lonnie snorts. “I’m not touching that with a ten foot pole.”

Adora’s shoulders sag, her eyes suddenly glued to the pavement. “It’s because I’m autistic, isn’t it?”

“What? No!” Lonnie protests in disbelief. “That doesn’t matter to Catra, or to me. You’re quirky as all fuck but that’s why we love you, ya know? Because you’re you.”

A tiny smirk flickers on Adora’s lips. File that away under things to tease Lonnie about when she’s sober. But there’s more pressing matters to deal with right now. “Okay, then what is it?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Catra’s in-” Cutting herself off, Lonnie slams the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Ugh, I’m too high for this!”

“Whatever it is, just say it,” Adora urges her. This is starting to feel more and more ominous the longer Lonnie refuses to answer.

“Catra’s…” Lonnie stares off into space for several seconds before something finally clicks. Turning to Adora, she slowly says, “Catra’s indebted to you. You know?” Adora shakes her head and Lonnie sighs, pinching her brow. “Look, you’ve always been the one protecting her.” She shifts against the wall, eyes flicking away. “I can’t even count the number of times you threatened to punch me for messing with her, let alone kids at school. If she can’t protect you back, that makes her feel weak.”

“But she does protect me,” argues Adora. “She gives shit to anyone who makes fun of me. She helps me with school stuff, all the fucking time. If either of us is deadweight, it’s me.”

“How much do you wanna bet she has no idea you feel that way?” asks Lonnie, cocking an eyebrow. “No offense Adora, but for someone so insecure you have a massive ego.”

Crossing her arms, Adora huffs, “Oh, sure, that’s not offensive at all.”

“Catra doesn’t think you respect her, and I don’t blame her,” continues Lonnie. “And now she probably feels like you’re bossing her around again instead of appreciating what she _can_ do for you. Lecturing her for trying to repay the favor. You gotta…” Lonnie’s hand circles as she tries to come up with the right words, “respect her agency, you know?”

Adora does not know. She’s heard that term being thrown around before but no one’s ever taken the time to explain it to her. Unfortunately, she kind of doubts Lonnie will be able to elaborate in her current state.

“Are you always this pretentious when you’re high?” she asks instead.

“Hey, you’re the one who showed up and started blabbering on about all your problems,” Lonnie tosses back. “I’m allowed to wax a little philosophical on your ass.”

Adora winces, suddenly remembering Lonnie left to get away from all this. Well, maybe not this in particular, but still. “...Yeah,” she mutters. “Sorry if I, uh… harshed your mellow or whatever.”

Lonnie replies with a snort, but the gleam in her eyes tells Adora it’s an affectionate one. “Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Something always does.”

She places the joint back in her ziploc bag now that it’s cooled and pulls out a little vial of hand sanitizer, dousing her skin in a liberal dose to mask the smell. Unfortunately that smell is even more noxious than the weed and Adora exits the alley at the first whiff of it, hoping to avoid the oncoming headache it’s threatening to trigger. Lonnie must remember Adora’s sensitivity, because she lets her walk ahead of her as they head back to the house. They split up anyway as Adora heads for the front door, Lonnie peeling off towards the backyard.

Adora frowns as she kicks off the skate shoes she must have slipped into on her way out the door. She doesn’t remember putting them on, or anything really between finding Lonnie and storming out of the room after…

Oh, fuck. She yelled at Catra. She _yelled_ at Catra, after so many people had already yelled at her. After Weaver had…

Okay, maybe Catra was being a little shit, but Adora still shouldn’t have done that. She knows better. She’s supposed to comfort Catra in times of distress, not make it worse. So not only is she a bad quarterback, she’s a bad friend too. Great.

Feeling her eyes burning and heart rate picking up, Adora pinches her brow and tries to breathe. She can still fix this. She _has_ to fix this. The shame and anxiety of someone being mad at her for an extended period of time is unbearable no matter who it is, but with Catra it’s a special kind of hell. Being on that shaky ground with no hand to cling to is downright terrifying, and knowing she’s hurt Catra has got to be the worst feeling in the world.

She climbs the stairs on shaky legs, her stomach cramping at the mere thought of having this conversation. As much as she needs to make this better, as soon as possible, she’s not ready to face Catra. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to say to her, because it’s not like she was wrong to begin with. She just needs to fix this. Somehow.

Reaching the top step, Adora decides to make a quick detour to the bathroom to wash away her tears and gather her nerves a little. She’s still in her head as she pushes open the door, her eyes only coming into focus when she hears a surprised yelp. Catra’s staring at Adora, frozen in a fighting stance by the sink. She’s also not wearing a shirt.

Adora doesn’t realize that her mouth has slipped open or that she’s staring right back until Catra crosses her arms over her bare chest and quietly hisses, “Jesus, learn to knock already!”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Adora, raising her hand innocently. Maybe if she wasn’t already in hot water with Catra she’d point out that maybe _Catra_ should learn to _lock the door_ , but now is so not the time. She’s also not sure she could string the words together. Her brain is moving slow as molasses after that shocking visual.

It’s not like Adora’s never seen Catra topless before; they live together and they’re on the same football team, obviously she has. But she was just not prepared for that, not in that ‘respect her privacy’ headspace that makes her automatically turn away before she can catch more than a cursory glance any time something gets revealed in a bedroom or locker room. And now that image is gonna haunt her until the day she dies.

“Shut the door, you moron,” Catra whispers, jerking her head at the door with wide eyes. Adora quickly nods, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. Catra rolls her eyes and it suddenly occurs to Adora that she meant shut the door in front of her, but her feet are rooted to the floor now as she takes in the scene. There’s a bloodied alcohol wipe and several bandaids lying on the counter, as well as one in Catra’s hand. Suddenly the lack of a shirt makes a lot more sense, as does the whispering.

Dropping her arms with a sigh, Catra turns her back to the mirror and strains to look over her shoulder, trying to position the first bandage over the cut with a limited visual and only one hand. Adora swallows against the ache in her throat and takes a tentative step closer, making a concerted effort to keep her eyes up.

“You need a hand?” she asks softly.

“I’m fine,” grouses Catra, continuing to struggle. She’s flexible, but not that flexible. After another moment she gives up with a grumble. Looking pointedly at Adora’s sling, she says, “Probably need two, actually. Grab Lonnie?”

“She’s coming. Hiding her-” Adora catches herself just in time but can’t help glancing over her shoulder anyway. Weaver has an uncanny ability to appear out of nowhere. Scratching her head, she rephrases, “Uh, her anxiety meds.”

“Great,” mutters Catra. She deflates with a sigh, turning to brace her hands on the lip of the counter. Adora’s left trying not to look at the vast collection of angry red marks marring her skin… or in the mirror.

Clearing her throat, Adora swallows and shifts her weight. She can’t stand the tension in the air, and now’s as good a time as any to try to make amends. “I’m sorry, by the way,” she murmurs. “For yelling at you.”

Catra sighs once more, her grip on the counter tightening. “I don’t care that you yelled, Adora,” she says tersely, “I care that you made me feel like shit.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Adora, her good hand fiddling with the strap of her sling. “I didn’t mean to disrespect your agency or anything.”

A wry chuckle rises out of Catra’s throat as she shakes her head slightly. “Do you even understand what that means?”

Adora’s fists flex, head snapping up as a cold prickle runs down her spine. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know that,” says Catra, holding her gaze steadily. “But you can’t just throw recycled words at me and expect it to fix things when you don’t even understand why I’m upset.”

“Then _tell_ me why you’re upset,” insists Adora.

Spinning suddenly, Catra hisses, “I _tried_.” She jams an accusing finger into Adora’s chest. “But you didn’t fucking listen, as usual.” She’s spitting mad, anger flushing her face and spreading down her neck, into her chest.

Shit, eyes up!

Catra catches Adora at the same instant she does and scowls at her, crossing her arms over her chest again. “ _Stop_ looking at my boobs.”

Shaking her head sharply, Adora averts her eyes in shame. “Sorry.” Her face and ears are burning so hot she thinks she’d like to dunk her head in a bucket of ice water.

“Are you really that desperate?” snarks Catra. “Go buy a Playboy or something, Jesus Christ.”

Adora’s world shifts suddenly, her head spinning as a cold rush washes over it. (Very much like said bucket of ice water, actually.) She needs to run but her body refuses to move, and even if it did she’s not sure she wouldn’t immediately run into a wall or trip over her own feet.

Catra’s eyes and posture soften a little, a conflicted look coming over her face. Her mouth opens and shuts a couple times, but before she can say anything the sound of the front door grabs their attention.

A sigh of relief pushes past Adora’s lips as she finally manages to look away, eternally grateful to Lonnie for picking that moment to come back inside. She doesn’t dare look back at Catra again, standing quietly by the door until she hears Lonnie’s feet on the stairs. Then she pokes her head out and whispers, “Lonnie!” Lonnie catches her eye and she waves her over. “We need your help.”

“What?” whispers Lonnie as she stops just outside the door.

Cringing apologetically, Adora explains, “I only have one hand, and Catra can’t reach…”

That’s enough for Lonnie to understand. She winces but nods, stepping forward and into the room. By the time Adora closes the door behind her, she’s got her trademark stoic expression glued on. Catra looks away, clearly embarrassed to ask for help, or maybe to let Lonnie see the damage. But she doesn’t protest when Lonnie steps up and silently takes the bandaid from her fingers. She lets it go with a sigh and turns back to the sink, bracing her hands on the counter.

Just as Lonnie’s smoothing out the adhesive strips on her skin, Catra finally speaks. “Lonnie,” she grumbles, “you need to mind your own fucking business.”

Lonnie turns her head to glare at Adora, who raises her hand in a gesture of both innocence and confusion. She didn’t say anything to Catra about it.

Reaching around Catra with a sigh, Lonnie picks up the next bandaid and says, “Look, all I did was try to explain to Adora why you’re mad at her.”

“‘Try’ being the operative word,” snarks Catra.

Lonnie’s eyes narrow. “Hey-”

“You weren’t even there, what makes you think you have any idea-”

“I know you better than you think,” Lonnie asserts. “Look, I’m just tryin’ to-”

“Well you’re not,” snaps Catra. “So just stay out of it.”

Taking half a step back, Lonnie plants her hands on her hips. “Do you want my help or not?”

“With this?” asks Catra, nodding over her shoulder. “Yes.” When Lonnie doesn’t move, she sighs out some of her aggression and forces a halfway apologetic look onto her face. “Please.”

Lonnie continues to glare but steps back in after a moment. Catra stiffens as Lonnie moves behind her again and Lonnie must notice, because she places a reassuring hand on her hip. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’m not going to hurt you.” A tiny grin spreads on her lips and she lightly pinches Catra’s flank. “You’ve given me plenty of chances already, right?”

Catra snorts, rolling her eyes. “Shut up.”

Lonnie giggles and Catra smiles down at the sink, barely even flinching as Lonnie gently presses the bandage to her wound. There’s that weird connection again. It’s all vicious bickering and then suddenly a sex joke makes it all better. Lonnie doesn’t even have to try. It’s so fucking unfair.

Adora shifts her weight, fidgeting as she continues to watch helplessly. She needs to do something useful. “I’ll go stand guard,” she mutters.

Neither of them answer as she slips out of the room. Why would they?

On her way downstairs Adora remembers she’s supposed to keep icing her wrist into tomorrow, so she heads right for the fridge. Good. That’s a good excuse to be downstairs. Spotting a carton of moose tracks in the freezer, she settles on an excuse to stay downstairs. She could use the pick-me-up anyway.

Scooping hard ice cream without a second hand to steady the carton is tricky, but Adora manages a few small scoops before she loses patience and dumps the scoop in the sink. Sighing heavily, she closes the carton and puts it away, then moves to grab a spoon from the silverware drawer. When she turns around, the sight of Ms. Weaver standing by the dining room table makes her jump, the spoon flying out of her hand and landing with a loud clatter.

She didn’t even do it on purpose, but it’s the perfect alarm. Just in case it wasn’t clear enough, she adds as loudly as she can without it being obvious, “Ms. Weaver! Hey.”

Thankfully, Weaver seems to interpret this as Adora simply being jumpy. Her initial reaction definitely helped sell it. Weaver’s lips curl in amusement as she enters the kitchen. “There’s no reason to be alarmed, Adora. I’m hardly an intruder.”

Bending down to retrieve the spoon from the peeling linoleum, Adora mutters, “You scared me.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Weaver assures her. “Not as long as you’re following the rules, at least.”

Adora can’t help the way her eyes flick up guiltily for a second before she averts them again, frowning to herself as she straightens up. She can’t even stand to look the woman in the eye, and it’s not just because she has something to hide.

Adora has a complicated relationship with their guardian, that’s for certain. Some days she wants her approval, even looks up to her. But whenever those sounds are fresh in her memory, especially when Catra was the recipient, Adora can only despise her. The fact that she _saw_ the damage this time makes it so much worse. Even the sound of Weaver’s voice is making her stomach queasy right now.

“I hope that ice pack is just for your wrist,” remarks Weaver, a clear warning in her voice as she steps closer.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Adora, turning to place the spoon in the sink. She takes her time grabbing a new one from the drawer, fighting to wipe the guilt off her face. She can feel Weaver’s eyes on the back of her head the whole time, as though she’s trying to bore through her skull and read her mind. A shiver runs down Adora’s spine, the creeping sense of dread nearly enough to make her visibly shudder. As if she needs anything else to tip off Weaver that something is amiss. She can’t act to save her life, not even Catra’s. This was a terrible idea.

“There’s a reason obstruction of justice is a crime, you know,” says Weaver, her tone calculated. She sounds displeased, yes, but also vaguely amused. Adora can’t help feeling like she’s toying with her.

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” Adora protests, closing the drawer with more force than necessary. “I’m just eating ice cream.”

When she turns around, the floor drops out from under her. Weaver’s gaze has hardened into full on evil eye mode, her body stiffening to tower even taller over Adora.

“Sorry,” Adora quickly backtracks, eyes wide and alert. It’s not good enough. Weaver starts to close in on her and she panics, raising both hands as she shrinks back against the counter. “I’m sorry!”

The ice pack shifts in her sling and nearly slips out, ends up caught between her chest and her elbow as Adora squeezes her eyes shut and turns her face into her shoulder. The pack is cold, but it’s the feeling of Weaver’s icy fingers tracing her jaw that makes her shudder. A sharp, shaky breath erupts from Adora’s lungs and she feels a single tear squeeze out of the corner of her eye.

Despite the fear hammering in Adora’s chest, Weaver’s touch is gentle as she turns Adora’s chin back her way. Knowing that gentleness could disappear at any second, Adora follows the implied order and forces her eyes open. Weaver’s gaze is still hard, but the anger behind it seems to have lessened.

“You know better than to take that tone with me,” says Weaver. She says it more like a fact than a threat, but Adora knows it is very much both.

“Yes, ma’am,” she chokes out.

Weaver continues to stare her down for a few seconds that feel like an eternity before she reaches down into Adora’s sling to retrieve the wayward ice pack. Relief courses through Adora as Weaver slides it back up her arm, followed by confusion when it glides over her wrist and completely out. Never breaking eye contact, Weaver takes the bowl from the counter and steps on the trash can’s pedal, unceremoniously dumping the ice cream in the garbage.

“Wash your dishes,” she says, handing the bowl back to Adora. “Then go to your room.”

A weird empty, floaty feeling rises up in Adora and she nods numbly, robotically. She turns to the sink, hypersensitive ears tracking Weaver’s every move as she returns the ice pack to the freezer and exits the kitchen. In the direction of her own room, thankfully, not towards the stairs. Catra and Lonnie are safe.

It takes the sound of Weaver’s door closing to convince Adora’s body that she’s safe as well. It slumps against the counter with a long, shuddering breath, and her eyes squeeze shut again as she’s hit with a disorienting, almost painful headrush. It takes a moment for her to gather herself enough to resume her task. Her hands and legs tremble as she struggles to clean the scoop with one hand, tears dripping off her chin into the soapy water in the bowl.

Is she really crying over ice cream? God, she’s such a fucking child. No wonder Catra doesn’t want her.

Even with her one available hand rather uncooperative in her shaken state, it doesn’t take Adora long to finish. When she returns upstairs, the bathroom door is open and Lonnie is sitting in the hallway just outside their room. Adora cringes at the scent of way too much air freshener coming from the bathroom, her nose wrinkling in displeasure. She and Catra both have sensitive noses so they usually avoid using it, but they can’t rely on the fan to disperse the scents of blood and alcohol if Weaver were to come up here.

Eyeing Lonnie curiously, Adora guesses, “Catra kick you out too?”

“Hiding her garbage,” explains Lonnie. “Doesn’t want me to know the spot.”

“Don’t take it personally. She won’t tell me either,” grumbles Adora, arms crossing instinctively as she glares down at the carpet. Her scowl slowly melts and she glances at Lonnie, eyes bouncing away again quickly. “I didn’t tell her we talked, you know. She figured that out on her own.”

Lonnie shrugs this off. “Whatever, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m high, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“No, I… I appreciate you trying,” Adora admits, toying with the end of her ponytail.

Eyes falling shut with a sigh, Lonnie mutters, “At least someone does.”

There’s nothing more to say, so they stay silent for the next few moments until Catra calls that it’s okay to come in. Lonnie gets to her feet, nearly tipping over but catching herself just as Adora lunges in for the save. “I’m good,” she says sheepishly. “Thanks.”

Adora just nods and motions for Lonnie to go ahead, following her inside. Catra’s lying on her stomach on her bunk, propped up on her elbows reading a textbook leaning against the guardrail. She narrows her eyes at Adora but neglects to comment, turning back to her work without so much as a snarky greeting. That’s bad. Really bad.

Adora settles on her own bed as unobtrusively as possible, not daring to rock the bunk or the boat. Catra may have let her back in in one sense, but only one.

Maybe there’s way more to fix than she bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Catra's feelings this chapter are meant to be an equivalent to how Catra was feeling after going to save Adora in Thaymor and getting told what she'd done was wrong - in fact, that's the idea I based this whole fic around (that and them being on a football team _together_ ). I feel like this is something people don't often think about, but imo it was a big reason why she was upset at how Adora reacted.
> 
> Anyway, I know these last couple chapters have been pretty heavy what with the abuse themes and all, but we're about to get into Entrapta's epic Halloween party and all the amazing relationship drama that's gonna come with it. People will fight, people will kiss, and someone will make a drastic decision.
> 
> I can't really give a trailer with lines for the next chapter because so much is gonna happen at this party and I'm not sure yet what will be in which chapter, but I promise you're gonna love it (and hate it).
> 
> Lastly, thanks to [jem-jarrett](http://jem-jarrett.tumblr.com) for beta reading this chapter and helping me fine-tune stoned!Lonnie. :D


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